


Black and White and Shades of Grey

by Khat



Category: The Blacklist (TV), White Collar
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Kind of a fix-it, Neal-trouble-magnet-Caffrey, Peter-I'm-the-boss-Burke, Reddington's just amused, White Collar post-series, discussion of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8708152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khat/pseuds/Khat
Summary: Tag:  Neal's in trouble again, Peter's stuck running interference, and Reddington's just amused by the whole situation.
Summary:  When Reddington sets his sights on a sibling-run gang with big ambitions, he suggests the way in is in the form of a well-known forger/conman in their employ.  But catching and managing said conman is going to require some aid from his former handler, New York's finest.  And, of course, since it's Neal Caffrey, nothing is ever that simple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this sort of has a funny story. I 'discovered' The Blacklist a few months ago, and was hooked within the first episode. When I happened to mention it to my mother, she commented that it sounded a lot like the show she liked, White Collar, so I decided to give that a glance, and, yeah, if you dismiss the reversed power balance, the basic premise is the same, a rules-were-made-to-be-broken criminal helps the FBI solve crimes and capture other criminals, while trying to further his own agenda and developing a less-than-professional relationship with his by-the-book handler (which is not insinuating anything romantic between the pairs). I thought it was a bit ironically funny about that colour name thing there, too.
> 
> And let's face it, Matt Bomer is hot.
> 
> Anyway, my mom's comment stuck in my head too, and eventually made me start to wonder how Neal and Reddington would get along if they ever met up, which morphed into a fix-it of sorts, and then into this (I've spent the last week typing out random scenes that just came to mind, some of which have already been sidelined because they didn't fit when the story actually started to form up. I might do a separate outtakes post, if anyone's interested.) and since WC left that open ending with Neal (I'm actually only mid-season 4 atm, so please forgive and feel free to mention any mistakes, but it's not hard to find out about that tidbit) it actually fits in reasonably neatly.
> 
> No guarantee is offered on update times, it all depends on how much time I have and how much the characters feel like talking to me. If anyone has any scene suggestions, I would love to hear, and possibly use, them, but again, no promises. I would like to admit that the business that got Neal into trouble in the first place is lifted from Auchen's Blacklist AU, Whelve. It's a good story, even if they are a bit OOC (And let's face it, Red is crazy hard to capture even outside of an AU situation) and I hope she doesn't mind me borrowing the idea as an in.
> 
> As an aside, I'm from small town Ontario, so my knowledge of Washington DC is non-existent. and, though I did look, I couldn't figure out where, exactly, the Post Office is located, so all names, locations, etc are off the top of my head, and some other small things might be BSed as well. Again, feel free to call me on anything you see wrong.
> 
> And Tom's not around. I don't know where he is, off playing on the spin-off with the Phoenix (Seriously, that is ALL I see. I think it's the eyes. They could have at least given her a different haircut) or something.

 Liz stumbled into the Post Office 10 minutes late, feeling like she was still half-asleep.  Agnes was teething, and had been up half the night crying, and then the alarm clock had decided to stop working.

And of course, since the day was turning out so great, the first thing to great her when she stepped off the elevator was her every cheerful C.I.

“Lizzie.  Isn’t it a lovely day?  You’re looking positively radiant.”

“Liar.”  She growled, the tone doing nothing to dampen Reddington’s smile.  He simply handed her a huge take-out cup of coffee (She hadn’t had time to pick one up.)  She gave in and offered him a faint smile as she took a sip.  Just the way she liked it, of course.

“What horrid psychopath are we after today?”  She asked, starting toward her desk.

“Oh, the usual brand of murderers and thieves.  And something a little special.”  Red answered, following after her.

 

******

 

“The Terrence gang has their fingers into everything in their area.”  Red informed the group, once everyone had assembled in the war-room.  “Drugs, Forgery, shakedowns, murder.  The leaders of the gang are twin sisters Alexis and Naomi.  They’re very good.  Local law enforcement hasn’t been able to pin anything on them.”

“And you think we’ll be able to?”  Ressler interrupted.

“They’ve hired a new forger.  He’s very good, the FBI has him listed as one of the best con-artists in the world.  He’s also young-minded and arrogant, though.  He’ll be our way in.”

“So, what’s the name of this mysterious conman?”  Liz asked, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

“Perk up, Lizzie.  You’ll love him.  He’s a real charmer.  He’s going by Sean Birch, at present, though he has almost as many aliases as me, but the FBI know him best as Neal Caffrey.”  He paused, waiting to see if anyone recognized the name.

“Neal Caffrey died two years ago.”  Cooper pointed out.

“Who was he?”  Samar asked curiously.

“He was an art thief and forger.”  Liz answered.  “We actually did a week’s study on him at Quantico.  He was, as Reddington said, the best, and he had a three year career, evading everyone, before a white collar agent named Peter Burke finally cornered him and took him in.  He broke out three months shy of his sentence, and then turned C.I. for the New York office.  Burke was his handler for four years, and then he was killed during an operation two years ago.  Or, supposedly killed.”

“And he’s been laying low ever since then.  Enough so that the FBI have never questioned his death.”  Red finished.  “My advice; if you want to catch this one, you’re going to have to call in some help.”

 

******

 

Peter Burke seemed to be a fairly laid back agent, Liz decided.  Not what she had really expected from the man who had hunted down and then turned one of the most capable criminals of the day.  From the way his expression hardened any time Caffrey’s name was mentioned, though, she had no doubt there was steel behind his affable nature.

“Neal is smart.  You can’t catch him the same way you do your run-of-the-mill criminals.”  They were all in the war-room again, a day later, the New York agent briefing them.  “But he’s also pretty cocky, and he’s a sucker for a pretty face, so you can use that against him.”

“We?”  Ressler asked.  “I thought they called you down to catch him.”

“If Neal catches sight of me down here, he could walk right in, or he could rabbit, and right now I’m honestly not sure which it would be.  If he runs, you’ll be searching for him for another two years, at least, and I don’t think that fits with your timeline.  I’ll organize this from the background, and see how he responds if we miss him before I make any plans to go after him directly.  Now, Neal likes his luxuries…”

 

******

 

The plan was simple.  Find out where Caffrey was hanging out, something Reddington did without too much trouble, and then lure him into a trap, which was where Samar and Liz came in. 

And it failed spectacularly.  Something, nobody was quite sure what, tipped him off, and a ‘trip to the men’s room’ turned into a complete disappearance.  Peter wasn’t overly pleased about it, but neither did he seem all that surprised.  Neal hadn’t taken so long to catch, he assured them, simply because he was lucky.

The second attempt went just as badly, and then the third.  Reddington made a comment about FBI inability at one point, and Ressler answered with a suggestion that the crimelord have his men bring their fugitive in if he could do it better.  Red was not happy to admit he’d had just as little luck himself.

“Something’s definitely keeping him here.”  Peter commented, after a fourth failed operation.  Although, they had come away with a nice-looking black fedora this time.  “Otherwise he’d be long gone, or at least in a different part of the city.”

“He’d be easier to catch with a bullet in him.”  Samar suggested coolly.  “Just the shoulder, or leg, something to slow him down, if we want him alive.”

“Suggest that again and I’ll put one in you.”  The New York agent responded, glaring at her.  “Neal doesn’t like guns.  He avoids them whenever possible, but he can sure as hell use one if he feels threatened.  I’d really rather not have to drag him in for injuring, or killing, a federal officer.”  He considered a moment, staring at the fedora that sat on his desk unseeingly a moment, then smirked.

“Where’s the best hat shop in the area?  Neal’s going to need a new one.”

 

******

 

Peter went with them this time, and, while the team watched the obvious exits to the shop, he went looking for the back way in.  He found it mostly by accident, just coming around the corner as his quarry stepped out the hidden exit. 

Neal actually looked younger, surprisingly.  Gone was the neat suit and slicked hair.  Instead he wore a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, both still well made and in good condition, just tight enough to show off his slender physique.  Over the shirt he wore a leather jacket, left open.  His hair was a little longer, left mostly untamed, curling around his face and brushing his neck.  A chain of alternating gold and silver links hung around his neck.

“Neal, stop.”  Peter ordered, gun half-raised in what had long since become a subconscious movement.  The other man looked back at him, not seeming overly surprised.

“Are you going to shoot me, Peter?”  The smile turned it into a rhetorical question, but Peter answered anyway.

“No.  Not anymore than you’re going to try to run.”  He tucked his gun back into its holster and held up the handcuffs instead.  Neal eyed them with a frown.

“And if I did?”

“I imagine the other agents are closing around, by now.  Even if you slip past, we’ll just come after you again.  If Reddington’s men don’t find you first.  I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t hesitate to bring you down however they had to.  Don’t be stupid, Neal.”

Heaving a resigned sigh, the criminal held his wrists out and Peter cuffed him.  Then he produced another, very familiar type of cuff.

“Peter, no, not the anklet again.”  Neal protested, glaring at the tracking unit, though he didn’t stop the older man from locking it around his left ankle.  This one was actually a lot less obvious, almost ornamental.  “Where’s it centered here?”

“At the moment, on me.”  Peter held up his right wrist, which held a bracelet that obviously matched the anklet.  “It’s completely controlled from here.  No key.  If you prefer, I heard they can make them in collars, too.”  He reached out to snag the chain Neal wore, giving it a tug.

“Peter, I never knew you were into that type of thing.  Does Elle know?”  Peter just gave the younger a long look.  Neal’s smile faded and he looked away.

“You never learn, do you?  What the hell are you doing, Neal?”

“I wasn’t-” Neal began.  Peter scowled at him, already spotting the lie.  Neal paused, then began again.

“There’s a girl…”  He leaned back against the wall, fiddling with the handcuffs.  Peter let him.  He had the anklet on, now, and there had really been no need for them in the first place, but he had been in the mood to add that bit of mental enforcement.

“Of course there is.  Another Kate.”

No,” he was quick to deny.  “It’s different.  She needed my help.”  Peter settled his hands on his hips, a faintly disbelieving expression on his face.  Neal took that as a cue to continue.

“I’ve been helping out some people.  Abuse victims and people who needed to disappear.  Innocent people.”  He added quickly.  The agent’s expression didn’t change.

“Anyway, there was this girl, Laurie’s her name now.  She needed to get away from her abusive ex-boyfriend, so I set her up with a fake I.D.  Something went wrong, though, and some people found out.”

“The Terrence sisters?”  Peter asked.  Neal offered him a grin, but it was only returned with a frown.

“Yeah,” he admitted, giving up that attempt.  “They threatened to let her boyfriend know, if I didn’t do a few little jobs for them.  One thing led into another.  I tried to get Laurie away, but then Naomi and Alexis grabbed her and her daughter and they have them hidden somewhere.  As long as I play nice, they’ll be fine.”  Peter let his arms drop, taking on the long suffering look that Neal was quite familiar with.

“Why didn’t you come to me?  You know I would have helped you.”

“You had a new baby to look after.”  Neal answered, relaxing now that he was sure Peter wasn’t going to try to strangle him or shoot him or something.  “How is he, by the way?  I heard you named him after me.  And Elle?”

“They’re fine, Elle misses you, she made me promise to bring you home.”  Neal blinked, a little taken aback about Peter’s comment about ‘taking him home’, but, then, the Burkes _were_ as close to a real family as he’d ever had.

“Now, you are going to stay where I can see you, at all times.  Director Cooper has already offered a nice little cell to drop you into and if you take off on me even once, I will use it.”  Neal just nodded obediently, knowing the threat wasn’t idle. 

Peter gave him a long look, and Neal returned it with his best innocent expression, until the corner of the older man’s lip quirked upward.

“You’re smiling.”  He pointed out, grinning back.

“Sean _Birch_?”

“Well, Burke seemed a little obvious, and I’m not entirely sure it fits me.”  Peter just huffed a laugh, and then lifted his wrist to talk into his communicator.

“I already told you, you’re not shooting him.  Everything’s under control, I’ve got him.  Around the back.”  He dropped his wrist and started up the alley, Neal obediently falling in behind, hands slipping into the pockets of the jacket.

The criminal was a little surprised at how comfortable, how _right_ it felt, to be shadowing his jailer again.  He shouldn’t be, though, he supposed.  It had been the majority of his life for four years.

Peter made things simpler, too.  It was a lot easier to ignore the opportunities when they weren’t there, when you knew that there was someone who was going to catch you.  And Peter always had.  He was like an external conscience, really, and lord knew Neal needed that.  Even the weight of the anklet felt familiar again, a reminder of the security.  It had taken him a while after his ‘death’ to get used to not wearing it.

“Someone wanted to shoot me?”  He spoke up, as they stepped out onto the street.

“The Mossad agent.  Samar Navabi.”

“Oh, the one with the knife.  It’s a very nicely made blade.”  Peter gave him a knowing look, which was returned with one of pure innocence.

“Give her back her knife.”  Neal huffed and pulled a large collapsible knife out of a hidden pocket inside the jacket and reluctantly handed it back to Samar.  She tucked it away and gave him a dark look.

“Try to pick my pocket again and I will use it on you.”

“So noted.”

“Why isn’t he cuffed?”  Neal smiled charmingly at the blond man who was eyeing him distrustfully.

“I don’t really like handcuffs.”  He answered as Peter stepped away to take a phone call.  “They’re nice to play with in the bedroom, but are a really big fashion faux pas out on the streets.”

“Great.  Another Reddington.”  The agent growled, producing his own set of cuffs.  Neal patiently let him put them on him.  He baulked, though, when the agent grabbed his arm to pull him over to one of the cars.

“Hey, back off, Blondie.”

“Ressler, let him go.”  Peter called, and both turned to look at the senior agent, who then pointed at another car, presumably his own.  Neal pulled his arm free, pocketed the second set of cuffs in with Peter’s, and started toward the car.

“Neal, give him back his badge and wallet.”

“Spoilsport.”  Neal muttered, but turned to toss the items at the agent, who had just reached to check his pockets at the comment, before going to slide into the front passenger seat, though he left the door open and his legs out.

“I don’t like him.”  Ressler growled as he moved over to Elizabeth and Samar.

“Of course you don’t.”  Samar answered.  Elizabeth turned to look as Reddington and Dembe drove up.  The crimelord stepped out and sauntered over cheerfully.

“Mission complete, I assume?”  He glanced around, spotting Neal, who was fiddling with the new anklet.

“Neal, Elizabeth wants to talk to you.”  Peter called, gesturing toward the car, and Neal leaned back to turn on the Bluetooth connection and take over the call.

“Another Elizabeth?”  Ressler commented, as the New York agent came over.

“My wife.  She’s been worried about him.  Are we ready to head back?”

“With all the trouble he’s given us, I’m surprised he’s behaving so well now.”  Red commented.  Peter shrugged.

“It’s all a game to him.  He tries to pull something, I catch him and he behaves for a little while, and then it starts again.  He’s not a bad person, he certainly isn’t out to hurt anybody, he just gets bored easily, tends to fall in with the wrong people, and has a problem with impulse control.”

“So don’t trust him.”  Samar commented.  “Simple enough.”

“I trust Neal to be Neal.  He’ll throw a con, if it will get someone into real trouble.  He doesn’t have any problems with working with us.  He actually told me why he’s hanging around, in fact.  The sisters have his new girlfriend and her daughter captive, which means he’ll be even more eager to help than he usually is.”

“That anklet’s more secure than those cuffs were, isn’t it?”  Ressler again.  Peter took a glance at his prisoner to find Neal watching them, fiddling with the anklet absently.

“He could get his way out of it, if he really wanted to.  He’s done so a number of times.”  Peter admitted, turning back.  “Think of it as a security blanket.”

“Yours or his?”  Liz asked.

“Both, a bit.  I like knowing where he is, and he won’t admit it, but I think it’s a bit easier for him to follow the rules when he knows he’ll get caught.  Usually.”

“Not always though, apparently.”  Liz interjected suddenly.  Peter glanced back at the car and swore.

“How the hell did he slip it?”  Ressler snapped. 

“He’s Caffrey.”  Peter answered.  Reddington just laughed, earning himself a few glares, which were only returned with a cheerful grin.

“I think I like this one.”  He commented.

“Anyone have a laptop with wifi?”  Peter interrupted.  “We need to get him back before he finds the tracking chip I dropped on him.”

 

******

 

Neal _had_ found the tracking chip.  And the second, and the third.  The fourth, though, he missed, and that was the one that led the team back to his apartment.

“You’re getting really sneaky, Peter.”  The younger man had commented when Peter had hauled him out onto the street, being very sure to keep a hand on him.  “I’m almost proud.”

He was far less impressed, though, when he saw where he would be spending the night.

“They _work_ here?  It’s worse than prison, at least there are some windows there.  We’re not actually going to stay here, are we?”  The agent dragged him down a set of stairs into a large empty area, pushing him the last few steps up onto the platform of the glass cage.

“Shut it, Caffrey.  You are staying _here._ ”  Peter snapped.  The anklet had already been replaced, apparently Neal had managed to interrupt the wireless signal and confuse the tracker into unlocking.  Aram had assured Peter that he could fix that bug, given a day or so, and Ressler had mentioned the box. 

A quick pat down and Peter pocketed Neal’s wallet, phone, a lockpick kit and, surprising, a small box that, when he opened it, held…

“An engagement ring?  This really _is_ Kate all over again.”

“No, it’s not.”

There was a cot on the platform, and Peter just sighed and quickly cuffed him to the frame of it, then stepped away, over to the control panel.

Neal sat down, giving the older man a confused look, then his eyes widened as the glass walls started closing around him, jerking at the binding.

“Peter, don’t.”  He begged, pulling a pin from the waistband of his jeans and going to work on the cuff.  He had just barely got it off, though, when the glass locked into place.

“Peter, let me out.  Please.  I won’t go anywhere, I promise.”  Peter just gave him a disappointed look and turned to head back up the stairs.

“Peter!”  As the agent reached the top of the stairs, the room’s lights went out, leaving only the red emergency lights.  Neal’s call took on an edge of fear.

“PETER!”

 

******

 

“You’re sure that cage is escape-proof?”  Peter stood in the observation room, keeping his voice low, even though he knew full well that he could have yelled and Neal wouldn’t have been able to hear him.  The captive had stopped calling, after swearing at him colourfully, and had taken a few attempts to break the glass with his shoulder, before abandoning that attempt as well, now pacing the cell restlessly, occasionally stopping to tap at the glass or study the join along the front.

“Reddington himself couldn’t manage to get out of there without outside help.”  One of the guards answered.  “And that’s not a boast.  It cost one of his people her life, and almost Agent Keene, as well.”

The senior agent nodded, just watching his friend on the display a moment more.  He wasn’t particularly comfortable leaving him in there, of course, especially after his tone of voice, and the obvious agitation now, but it wouldn’t hurt him, and Peter didn’t have the time to rebuild the healthy fear and respect the criminal had developed over their years together.  Neal needed to drop back into that mindset _now_ , before his impulsiveness caused them trouble.

“He’s not claustrophobic, is he?”  The other tech, a woman, asked.

“No.”  Peter answered quickly.  “No, I wouldn’t do that.  He just doesn’t like being contained.  He’s…  Well, you know all those Native American stories about the trickster Raven?  Neal’s the raven, and he really hates having his wings clipped.  He’ll be fine, just let him sulk, and I’ll be back in the morning.  If anybody lets him out of there before then, I _will_ have them charged with aiding and abetting.”  Peter cast one last concerned look at the monitor, seeing that Neal had sat down against the wall in the back corner, knees up and arms resting carelessly on top of them, his head pressed back against the glass.  He forced himself to turn away, then, and left the room to head back to his hotel.  Neal _would_ be fine, and he could deal with the resultant pouting in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the interest, now I'm _really_ hoping I don't screw this up.
> 
> Before reading, please note that I am neither lawyer nor psychiatrist/-ologist, nor profiler, so take the information in those areas with a whole heaping mountain of salt. (And, except for Peter's come-back there, all the metaphors and idioms in this chapter were unintentionally placed. It just seems to be a day for them or something.) It just all sort of made sense to me.
> 
> The Little Boy Blue just popped into my head in the form of the nursery rhyme, for some reason, (with a Neal twist that will, theoretically, be in the next chapter) but it does sort of fit, given Neal's occasional childishness and appearance, and those gorgeous blue eyes of his. I feel it's a better Tag than 'James Bonds', myself. You can let me know.

When Peter came back in the next morning, a small duffel bag in hand, the lights in the room were still off.  Neal hadn’t moved from his corner, having apparently fallen asleep there.

He came awake quickly as the lights came on, watching Peter silently.

“Have a nice night?”  Peter typed in the code for the cell, and Neal stood as the walls began to retract.

“Yeah, sure.”  He answered coldly as he exited the box.  Peter resolutely squashed the guilty feeling rising up in him, handing Neal the duffel bag.  The younger man glanced in it and looked pleased for a moment, before his scowl slid back into place.

“Thanks.”  He muttered, following Peter up the stairs.

“Director Cooper let me know there’s a set of showers here, down the hall and to the right.  Don’t get lost.  I’ll be waiting in the bullpen.”

 

****** 

 

Peter was sitting at his new temporary desk, reading over some files Diana had faxed over, when Neal sauntered up, looking more like his old self in his suit and gelled hair, a good hour later.  The agent quickly cleared the map he had had up on the computer screen, and decided not to comment on the amount of time his CI had taken, knowing full well he was just being contrary.  Though, he had been of half a mind to go and make sure he hadn’t slipped the tracker again.  Mostly likely that was just why Neal had been dragging his heels, though, to turn it back into an argument about trust or something.

Predictably, Neal snagged the paper coffee shop bag that sat next to a, by now, cold cup of coffee, and flopped down in the high-backed desk chair Peter had pulled over earlier, leaning back in it and resting his heels on the desk’s corner, his pantleg falling back to reveal the anklet.  Peter looked up from the files.

“Feeling better?”  He asked, reaching over to tug at the tracker lightly, checking that it wasn’t too tight.  He hadn’t been all that careful about putting it on the night before.

“No.”  Neal answered, though he did look more sulky now than angry, picking at the blueberry muffin that had been in the bag.  Peter took the lie for what it was, firmly decided to ignore the feet on the desk, and returned to the reports he was reviewing.

Neal finished the muffin and looked around the room boredly.  Before he could get too antsy, though, a chime sounded, and both blue eyes and brown settled on Neal’s phone, lying on the desk next to his wallet and the ringbox.  Neal immediately lunged for it, but Peter’s hand slapped down over it first.

“I need to answer it.”  The criminal pleaded, but Peter just picked it up himself, glancing at the caller ID and hitting the talk button himself.

“This is the 56th district police department,” The agent spoke, adopting his best bored cop tone.  “Detective Lassen speaking, may I ask who’s calling?”  There was a moment of silence, and Neal flopped back into the chair, just watching Peter with a mix of irritation and nervousness.  Peter ignored him, waving his hand to get the tech’s attention and mouthing ‘trace’ to him.  The man immediately went to work.

“Oh, no, ma’am, I’m sure you have the right number.  This phone was confiscated from a witness and is being held until we have spoken with him.  A Mister…”  Peter rustled a paper, making it sound like he was looking for something.  “Here it is.  Sean Birch.  Could I ask your relation to him?”  Another moment of silence, and Neal pushed up out of the chair, taking a few steps away before stopping, not turning back, obviously seething.

“Oh, I see.  Yes, I can certainly understand your concern at missing an employee.”  Peter watched him, but didn’t bother to call him back, yet.  “And I am sorry for the inconvenience to you.  You see, there was a physical altercation at a bar early this morning, and we’re just holding all the witnesses until we can get their statements and clear this whole thing up.”  Silence again.

“Oh, no, he’s not in any trouble.  Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He seems like a good kid to me, actually.”  The con turned to look over his shoulder at him incredulously.  Peter just gave him an even look in return.  “No, I’m sorry, I really don’t know.  It’s a long list, it could take us all day.  And you have a wonderful day as well, ma’am.  Good bye.”

“What the hell was that?  You’re going to get Annemarie and P- Angela killed.”

“Sit down and relax.  Unless you’re going to claim you had a better plan?  Maybe telling them your FBI handler caught up with you?”  Neal remained silent, but his jaw clenched angrily.

“You could have asked.”  He muttered, throwing himself back down into the chair.  Peter leaned back in his own chair, tossed his pen on the desk and fixed his gaze on his contrary partner.

“Are you going to fight me on everything?”  He asked.  Neal didn’t answer, just looking away.  “You’re walking on very thin ice, and I’m the only one with the ability to pull you out when you fall through who would bother to.  You should think long and hard before you try to burn this bridge again.”  If he were to be honest with himself, Peter knew that was almost impossible.  Yes, Neal could certainly set it ablaze, and had, a number of times, but every time, just when he was ready to turn his back on the younger man, Neal would turn those baby blues on him, full of uncertainty and fear, or do something so selfless that Peter couldn’t help but be reminded that he was, at heart, just a confused and lonely, albeit blazingly intelligent, little boy playing at being a man.

“I’m sure you could throw a few more idioms in there.  I didn’t ask you to help.”

“You’re my partner and my friend.  You don’t need to.”  And, because Peter suddenly was feeling just the slightest bit contrary himself, added, in response to the other’s complaint; “The ball is in your court.”

Neal eyed him a long moment, seeming unsure, then rose again, wandering off.  Peter just watched him go.  If he had guessed right, he had, hopefully, just put this latest little rebellion to rest.  Neal had been betrayed so often that he expected it, and two years could be a long time.  Long enough to make a con wonder if the cop on the other end of the leash could still be trusted.

 

******

 

“Who told you you were allowed to be here?”  Neal looked up from the box of files he had been nosing through, offering a cheerful grin.

“Agent…  Navabi, was it?”  The woman’s bland look neither confirmed nor denied it, so he just continued on.  “Nobody told me I couldn’t.”  It wasn’t a lie.  Technically no one had told him exactly what he was _or_ wasn’t supposed to be doing here.  Though, this was the third supicious D.C. agent he’d met one-on-one today.  Agent Ressler had been in the kitchenette earlier, and had run him out of there, and that European tech had taken to popping up inconveniently.

“Well, I’m telling you, now.”  She stepped out of the doorway, giving him a pointed look.  He followed the unspoken command after a moment and exited the room.  “This is a black ops site.  There’s information in those folders your handler isn’t even cleared to see.”

“Actually, I was mostly curious about this ‘Blacklist’ I heard one of the guards mention.  Or is that above my paygrade too?”

The Mossad agent considered, then shrugged, seeming to relax some, turning to continue down the hall.  Neal followed.

“The Blacklist is the reason this building is in operation.  It’s a list of names of some of the worst criminals in the world, according to Reddington.  Only he knows it, and he gives us names as he pleases and helps us hunt them down.”

“That’s why he rules the roost, then, so to speak?  I need to get one of those.”  Samar made an amused noise.

“I think you’d need a lot more than a list of names to turn the tables on Burke.  Face it, kid, you’re the girl in that relationship.”  Neal was so surprised at the statement that he actually tripped over nothing, stumbling.

“I… we’re not…  He’s married.  Very happily.  I have girlfriends.  Please don’t suggest that to his wife.”  It really was unlikely that Elle would believe something like that, truthfully, but Neal did not want to be considered responsible for starting those kind of stories.

“Samar.  You’re not intimidating our new friend, are you?”  Neal looked up at the voice, studying the pair who had just come out of another room, eyeing the obviously expensive suit interestedly.  “I know it comes naturally to you, but maybe you should give the poor boy a break his first day.  I heard last night wasn’t fun for him.”

“I can handle it.”  Neal answered, feeling the need to defend himself.  All in all, the cage hadn’t really been _that_ bad, it had been humiliating more than anything else, especially considering it was Peter himself that had locked him in.  “I’ve spent a lot of nights in worse places.”

He really shouldn’t have slipped the tracker in the first place, but he had just been sitting there, talking to Elle, and she had made a comment about Peter bringing him back where he belonged, not even actually asking his opinion about that, and it had all just really struck home.  He was under Peter’s thumb again, at his beck and call, compelled by what _he_ decided was best, and with two years without Neal around, who knew what conclusion, exactly, he had come to about that?  He could have reverted to Kramer Jr., or worse, for all Neal knew.  It had been frightening enough to make him panic.  He should have known better, really.  Peter wasn’t about to let him go so easily.

“Have you now?”  The man was clearly humouring him.  The other one was hired muscle, unless he was wrong, but probably loyal as a dog.  His ‘Jones’, most likely.

“Neal Caffrey.”  Neal said, offering a cheerful, and completely fake, smile.  The man smiled back at him.

“Yes, I know.  I’m the reason you’re here and not out stealing art and forging bonds.”

“You’d be Reddington then.  FBI’s new number 4.  Got bumped up after Peter and I took out the last owner of that title, I suppose.”  It didn’t hurt to point out his accomplishments.

“It’s a popularity contest.  If it went by actual ability, I’d be number 1.  I wonder where you’d fall on it.”

“I’m number 1 on Peter’s.”  Never any doubts on that, whether that was a good thing or bad.  Well, maybe number 2, actually, if they counted Elle.  “And high enough to be on this Blacklist of yours, apparently.”  The other criminal laughed.

“A little artwork and lockpicking don’t rank you with the real devils in this world.  You’re just a small fish in a big sea, and you had the luck to find yourself a rather tolerant protector.  You’re not on the list.  You are, however, going to help me get someone who is.”

Samar had stepped back out of the way, just watching the interaction with mild interest.  Neal hadn’t really expected any help there, he was just hoping she didn’t take the crimelord’s side if this turned into more than just words.

“You know, most people ask when they go looking for a favour.”

“You work for your handler, who works for the FBI, and, at the moment, the FBI works for me.  Ergo, you work for me.”

“I don’t work _for_ him.”  Neal snapped.  (Okay, so that was a bit of a fib, but the phrasing wasn’t helping his nervousness.)  “When I feel like it, I work _with_ him.”

“Or you go back to your doghouse?”  Reddington gave him a knowing look.

“I could walk out of here any time.”  Neal answered simply, hiding his anger.  “Slip the tracker, avoid the guards.  I can even bypass Peter, it isn’t that hard, I do it all the time.”

“And then?”

“Exactly.”  Neal snapped, and stalked off.

“I really do like him.”  Red commented to Samar, when the younger criminal was out of hearing.  “He’s smart enough to use his situation to his advantage.  A little naïve, though.”

“Weren’t we all at some point?”

“Oh, to be that young again.”  The crimelord sighed regretfully, then straightened his jacket and started down the hall.  “Well, let’s see if we can’t keep him that way.”

 

******

 

Neal hadn’t realised anything special was happening, and had taken the time to try to settle himself down, which was why the meeting in the war-room had already been underway for a few minutes when he slipped quietly into the room, moving to take his usual place at Peter’s left side.  The agent cast a quick, concerned glance at him, then returned his attention to Reddington.

“According to my source, Alexis has a tendency to disappear for periods of time, but he hasn’t been able to figure out where she goes to.”  Reddington tilted his head, giving Neal a curious look.

“I don’t suppose you might know?”  Neal shrugged, feeling belligerent.

“They don’t really tell me much.”  He evaded.  Peter gave him a look, flicking the folder he held by his side out to slap lightly against the younger man’s leg.

“Play nice and stop letting him show you up.”  He warned casually.

“Well,” Reddington commented, “if he doesn’t know anything…”  Predictably, Neal’s eyes narrowed.  Peter smirked inwardly.

“Alexis takes a yoga class at the Xueyou studio for a half hour every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at 2, and martial arts lessons at the same place on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”  The con snapped out.  “Then, unless Naomi’s arranged something else, she goes over to one of her boy-toys’ places.”  The title was given obvious derision.  “She stays there for a little ‘afternoon delight’ until 4:30 or 5, depending on which one it is and what kind of a mood she’s in, and heads back home, usually just in time to beat Naomi, after which they get ready for whatever dinner or social event they happen to have on that night, or go out club-hopping.  She’ll usually be out until 2 or 3, and then sleeps in in the mornings.

“Naomi is the actual businesswoman.  She handles the paperwork, when there is any, and pays off whoever needs paying.  Her schedule varies, but mostly involves meetings and typical gangster stuff.”

“Agent Burke mentioned something about a little girl.”  Liz queried.  Neal frowned, pausing a moment, as if considering.

“A baby.”  He admitted, with a sideways glance at Peter, his words slow and tone reluctant.  Peter decided he would try to decipher that particular clue later.  “Angela is just under a year old.  Wherever they’re keeping her and Annemarie, I haven’t managed to catch Alexis visiting, and…” he paused again, looking irritated.  “Naomi’s a bit harder to pin down.”

“Caffrey charm failing you?”  Peter teased, feeling relieved when Neal seemed to relax just a little.

“She’d like to wear my hat.”  The CI answered, falling back on what had become a somewhat common euphemism in their New York office.  Even Diana had found it amusing, after they had explained it to her.

“Hmm.”  Peter nodded, then translated for the rest of them.  “It’s an inside joke.  She’s gay.”

“Alexis isn’t, though?”  Ressler commented.  “I’ve heard the stories.  You like the women and they like you.  I would have thought you would have used that to your advantage?”

“I’ve been chained and beaten too much to enjoy more than the occasional handcuff and slap on the ass in my sex life.  Alexis likes her men very submissive, and they’re both well aware that I’m not.”

“No, submissive is certainly never a word I would use.”  His partner agreed.  “ _That_ would make things easier for me.”  Neal gifted him with a bright grin, taking the opening that the statement seemed to be.

“You’d get bored.”  He countered.  “Admit it.”

“What about on the weekend?”  Cooper broke in, before Neal could see what the response to that would have been.  He let it lay, for the moment.

“They go somewhere, out of town, possibly.  I’ve tried to follow them, a number of times, but each time they take a different route and manage to disappear along the way.  I think wherever they go must be where they’ve got them.  I tried looking for properties or something, but it’s a bit harder without access to FBI intel, and I need an authenticated computer for that, even with Peter’s password.”

“Again?”

“It’s not my fault you pick ones that are easy to figure out.”

“That was why you were in the file room earlier, then?”  Samar asked.  Neal shrugged, deciding to run with that.

“Less conspicuous than trying to get on the computer, especially with him watching me any time I got near one.”  He nodded towards Aram.

“Good work, Aram.”  Cooper interrupted, prompting an insulted look from Neal.  “Why don’t you look into that lead.”

“Try keeping an eye on where that phone I had you track earlier is showing up, too.”  Peter added in.  “She certainly seemed anxious to have ‘Sean’ back under her thumb.”  The man agreed and quickly left the room, heading for his desk.

“Ressler,” Cooper continued.  “You and Navabi can go out and poke around, shake a few trees and see what falls out.”

“Make sure you don’t forget your wallet and badge.”  Neal commented idly.  Ressler checked his pockets.

“Hand them over, now.”  Neal gave him an innocent look and Peter tried to look stern and not amused.

“I don’t have them.  Did you leave them in your desk drawer?”  The agent glared and stalked off.

“Ressler keeps his drawer locked.”  Samar commented.  “How did you manage to get them in there?”

“I didn’t do anything.  It could be, though, that if you knock the desk the right way, and jiggle the drawer at just the right time, it comes open.  FBI desks usually do.”

“Really.”  Peter gave him a bland look.

“I did say usually.  Yours seems to take a little more effort.”

“As amusing as your tales of tormenting FBI agents are, and I really do find them amusing, we’ll have to trade stories at some point, we have other places to be.”  Reddington interjected.  “Coming, Lizzie?”

“Coming where?”  She answered suspiciously.

“I have appointments to keep, and my own ways of tracking people down.”

“Please tell me we’re not going to see Glen.”  But she did follow him out of the room, Dembe appearing and following after them.

 

******

 

“So, what do you think of our new convict?”  Red queried, once he and Liz were settled in the back of his car.

“Did you seriously just bring me along to ask my opinion on him?”

“You’re avoiding the question.  Profile him.”  Liz gave him a suspicious look, but decided to play along.

“He’s good-looking.”  She admitted.  “And he knows it well and uses it to his benefit, as well as the fact that he looks younger than he is.”  She paused a moment, picturing the man, considering the angles, the way he had acted since they had recaptured him, and what she knew of him from files, although the paperwork had to be taken with a grain of salt.  “He has a deep-seated need for an authority figure, someone to follow and play against, and does his best to impress whoever’s willing to give him that; in this case, Agent Burke.  At the same time, he’s an eternal child, with the impulsiveness and impatience to match, and a carelessness towards the rules, and authority in general, which leads him to push against them, forever seeking that extra inch and rebelling against the same authority he longs for; again, Burke.  Could be the result of a missing or lackadaisical father figure in his youth.

“He’s extremely intelligent, but lacks a real focus that would allow him to employ it properly, and gets bored easily.  The fact that he’s always been able to get what he wants with relative ease means he’s not fond of the idea of actually working or waiting for something, and will usually take the easiest and fastest possible path to his objective, such as stealing and forging instead of making his way honestly.  Point him at something and get him interested, and he won’t give it up, like a dog with a bone, which is what makes him good at solving problems, but could also be a disadvantage, if he goes after the wrong thing or refuses to back off when he should.  It’s not made any better by the fact that he views the punishments he receives not as reprimands for the actual deeds done, but for getting caught doing them.  It means he wasn’t clever enough.

“He doesn’t trust easily, and always wears a mask, but if you _do_ manage to get through to him, you need to be careful, because he’ll be extremely sensitive and easily hurt, although if he really does trust you, he’ll be relatively quick to recover.  He’s not naturally inclined to hold a grudge, usually, and is obviously extremely loyal and protective.  I would imagine they’ve had a lot of ups and downs in their relationship.  They seem to be off-balance at the moment.”  She paused, glancing at her companion, who nodded in agreement.  “Of course, that’s only after knowing him a day.  Some of that could turn out to be off a little.”

“Expertly done, of course.  And the tracker?”  She thought about it a moment.

“Ideally, he really _shouldn’t_ be off that anklet, or some sort of tether, because he has no self-control, and will only join up with the wrong people and get himself into something serious.  But, of course, he can’t be punished for what he hasn’t done yet.  Legally, he shouldn’t be wearing it now.  The alternatives would be turning him loose, and hoping he doesn’t take off, which has already been proven to be a real risk, or sending him to a real cell, trying to charge him, and potentially losing the woman and child, as well as whatever other information he might have, if another CI arrangement can’t be brokered for him, which is also risky, given his history.  But it’s unlawful confinement.”  She gave Red a faintly disgusted look.  “That’s why you sent for Burke, though, isn’t it?  Because Caffrey isn’t going to fight him like that, he’s too used to the status quo to question it that much.”

“Personally,” Red replied, ignoring the last bit, “I think our Little Boy Blue is clever enough to know at least some of that about himself, too, if only subconsciously, which explains why he keeps purposefully drawing Agent Burke’s attention to himself.  I imagine, even if I hadn’t brought him to notice, it wouldn’t have been long before he was on _someone’s_ radar again.”

“You’re after him just as much as the gang, aren’t you?”  Liz accused.

“He has caught my eye a time or two, and I’ll admit to following up.  He’s not inclined towards a real criminality, so, as you said, he’ll just play around until he gets into real trouble, the kind that will see him locked up for the rest of his life or killed.  It would be a shame to let that potential go to waste.  It’s far better to have it directed under the eye of a responsible guardian.”

“And you’re just going to hand him back over to the FBI?  What’s in it for you?”

“I haven’t the time or patience to deal with another protégé at the moment, especially not one that high-maintenance.  His handler has checked out, too.  Peter Burke is as clean as they come.  Keeping up with the boy has made him stray into the grey areas of the law a bit, but he’s too strong a personality to let himself be rolled over, and he’ll do what he has to, within reason, to keep him safe and contained, as you pointed out yourself with the tracker.  Having a pair like that on the books might come in useful in the future.”

“I need to take some lessons from him.”  Liz muttered aloud, referring to Burke.  She only wished she could handle Red that well.  He only chuckled at that.

“You can try.”  He agreed.  “Do remember, though, that I am no Neal Caffrey.”

“Where _are_ we going, anyway?”  Liz asked, deciding to drop the subject.

“To see an acquaintance, not Glen, I don’t think I need to tolerate him for this, and then to a lovely little Italian place for lunch.  They make an absolutely wonderful rosto.  I think we should pick some up for our visitors as well, as a welcoming present.  The boy, at least, strikes me as the type to have a more refined palate.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm into season five. I hated Siegel right from the start (probably just cause he wasn't Peter, if we want to be honest about it) and now I feel guilty about it... Anybody else have that problem?
> 
> I had a bit of trouble with this chapter. I had to rework a good portion of the scene after Samar, because Neal was acting a bit TOO childish in the original. It had him calling on Peter for help right away, and then spending the time after his return and before the agent got back sulking. I think he's more in character now.
> 
> I found a few blueprints of the Post Office, that apparently came with the comic book (haven't seen it), so I don't know how absolutely canon it should be considered, but I am still taking a few liberties with it in either case. It doesn't look like it's a complete floorplan anyway. And I know, in the show, they mostly show only the main cast, but the wiki says there's supposed to be a lot more people there, and the scene doesn't really work with only half a dozen people and most of them elsewhere.

Neal kept himself busy for the next hour or so ‘relocating’ items.

Nothing big, or important, Peter _was_ paying attention, even while he was on the phone, managing the NY office from afar, and then working on some old files, and he would have put a stop to that.  The CI would just wander over to a random agent and distract them while he pocketed some small item, a lighter, pocketknife, a number of badges, and a few decorations off desks, and then exchange the purloined object for something else elsewhere.  It kept him out of worse trouble, and the agents seemed more amused than irritated by it, simply tossing or carrying the items back to their original owners or retrieving them, when their loss or placement was noticed.  It provided a reason to take a break or stop for a chat, Peter supposed.  He even seemed to be making a few friends, ironically enough, so the agent wasn’t too concerned, right up until he suddenly heard a yelp of pain, and Neal’s loud protests.

He looked up to see that Agent Navabi was back, and apparently the wayward thief had tried to snatch something from her desk, a small crystal figurine, it looked like.  She, at least, was not amused.  The Iranian woman had his right hand in a painful grip, in a position to break or, at the least, dislocate his thumb, without too much more effort.

“Did I not warn you not to steal from me?”  She asked him in a cool voice.

“You said not to pick your pocket.”  Neal protested, trying to use his best innocent sad puppy look on her, the one that even, occasionally, managed to get him out of trouble with Peter.  It didn’t seem to be working this time, since she only applied a bit more pressure, judging by the way her captive yelped and tried fruitlessly to free himself.

“In Iran, they punish a thief by cutting off his fingers, or even his whole hand.”  The knife Neal had taken before appeared in her other hand, and the criminal’s face went pale.  Peter watched cautiously, shifting a little so he could move quickly, if he had to.  Nobody else seemed too concerned, a few Agents were watching curiously, but she _was_ Mossad, and they could be rather brutal.

“I was just playing around, trying to cheer the place up a little,” Neal protested, having turned from trying to look innocent to trying to charm his way out.  “I was going to bring it back…  It’s not really stealing, it’s just borrowing, without asking…  Easier to beg forgiveness?”  He smiled hopefully.  She didn’t look impressed, and he let out another pained cry.  The ruckus had caught Cooper’s attention, as well, and the A.D. was watching from the catwalk.

“All right, sorry, sorry!”  He bleated finally, not taking his eyes off the knife.  “Peter!”  Peter eyed them a moment before deciding to call the woman’s bluff.  If she really was serious about it, Cooper would surely have stepped in already.

“Take his left hand, I’d rather not have to listen to him complain about how he can’t paint any more.”  Neal made a strangled noise at that.  Navabi held the blade up between them.

“If you try to take anything of mine again, if you even come near to my desk, I will remove both of your hands, and you can learn to paint with your feet.”  Peter was actually a bit concerned that his CI might pass out from that threat; he was as white as a sheet.  The agent released his hand and Neal gave Peter a hurt look and beat a hasty retreat down the hallway.

Peter sighed, thinking about going after him, but then firmly squashed the idea.  He wasn’t actually hurt, and maybe it would make him think twice about it next time.  Probably not, but he could hope.

He considered a moment, then paused his work long enough to conscript one of the lower level agents, sending the man off with a fifty from his ‘other’ wallet (kept tucked in a special pouch installed in his shoulder holster to make it Neal-proof) and a small shopping list.  He would have gone himself, but it was probably best not to leave his partner entirely unattended, and until that bug in the tracker was fixed, he’d rather keep him more confined, which meant not taking him out for a walk.

It wasn’t too much longer before Neal reappeared, loitering around the entrance to the hallway, rubbing the joint of his thumb.  Peter didn’t look up, but beckoned and then turned his hand to point at Neal’s chair, two fingered.  The younger man hesitated a moment, but then slunk over to sit sulkily.

“That wasn’t nice.”  He complained, attempting the puppy look again.

“I wouldn’t try it again if I were you.”  Peter refused to feel sorry for him.  “Next time she might not be bluffing.”

“I meant you.”

“I know.”

“What are you working on?”  Peter fished a file folder out of the briefcase he had brought with him, one of a bunch of cases they had been working on when he left, and handed it over.

“Here, you can look through that.”  The criminal really shouldn’t be working on files, since he wasn’t on the payroll any more, but one or two wouldn’t hurt.  It wasn’t like they were classified or anything.

“Trying to get up out of the 70s again?”

“80s.”  Peter corrected.  “And if you do it, it frees up the junior agents for more important things.”  Neal just gave him a knowing look and opened the file to look through it.

There was silence for a few minutes as both men read through their respective files, Neal reaching to steal Peter’s pen after a few minutes to jot some notes down, Peter just retrieving another one from his briefcase.  By the time Neal had worked through the one case, the junior agent had returned with Peter’s request and change.  Peter retrieved his main wallet from Neal’s pocket, again, to put the funds in there.  He was very careful to make sure the thief didn’t even know about the other wallet.  (Not that he thought he would go close enough to the gun to snatch it anyway, but still…)  Neal did give the money a suspicious look, but was suitably distracted when Peter set the plain plastic bag in front of him.

“You got me drawing paper and pencils.”  Neal grinned at him.  “Did I make you feel guilty?”

“No.”  Peter was quick to correct.  “That, at least, is something you can’t get yourself into trouble with.  I hope.”  His money had bought a pad of drawing paper, with a board, a set of pencils, and a box of charcoal from the nearest art supply shop.  They were all fairly pricey, in Peter’s opinion, but he only knew about finding art, not making it.  “They’re good enough?”  He had told the agent to get the shop-assistant’s advice about it.

“They’re great.  From Stacey’s, your guy must have told her they were for me.”  Of course Neal would know the shop’s owner on a first-name basis.

“The light in here is terrible, though.”  The CI muttered.

“Suffer.  You’re not going out until I’m sure that tracker’s fixed.”  Neal’s expression darkened a bit, but he apparently decided not to push the issue, taking the items and wandering off towards the stairs, presumably to find a better angle or something.

 

******

 

Peter had gotten distracted reading through the files on a new mortgage scheme that had popped up at home, and lost track of time, and his surroundings, until a takeout bag was sat neatly on his desk.

“A gift from Mr. Reddington.”  The criminal’s bodyguard told the agent.  Peter blinked.

“Oh.  Thank you.  I hadn’t realised it had gotten that late.”  He stood, stretching surreptitiously, and glanced around for Neal.  Apparently he wasn’t the only one wondering, as Reddington came over as well.

“And where is our Little Boy Blue?”  He asked.

“Who’s that?”  Neal queried as he approached them.  It was Agent Keen, at her desk, who answered.

“It’s a nursery rhyme.

Little Boy Blue,

Come blow your horn

The sheep’s in the meadow

The cow’s in the corn.

Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?”  She paused for effect, and Peter broke in, looking faintly amused.

“He stole the Monet while the guard was asleep.”

“Is that really how it goes?”  Neal asked.  “I like that.”

“No.”  Peter answered.  “The real line is ‘He’s under the haystack, fast asleep’, but I think my version’s probably more accurate.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.”  Neal admitted, then quickly added, “which is not an admission of guilt to anything.”

“Of course not.”  Peter replied wryly.  “Mr. Reddington was kind enough to bring us back lunch.”

“Washinton D.C.’s finest rosto.”  The crimelord stated.

“Really?  Great, I was worried Peter would dig up some devilled ham from somewhere.”  Peter decided to ignore the comment.  Neal set the drawing pad down and peeked into the bag.  “Is it from that place over on Third?  Wonderful brushetta, but their fettuccini alfredo is the real attraction.  They add…”

Peter rolled his eyes and tuned them out, quite used to the way Neal could carry on about gourmet foods.  He removed the containers from the bag and Neal took his, following Reddington, with his bodyguard, off to find somewhere to continue their discussion.

“I’m wondering if I should be worried.”  Agent Keen commented.

“Yeah.”  Peter agreed.  “Me too.  Neal’s enough of a handful without _another_ buddy to give him ideas.”

The woman sat back in his chair, frowning at the other agent.

“It doesn’t bother you? “  Peter gave her a curious look.  “The anklet.”  She glanced off in the direction the other three had gone in.  “You could get into a lot of trouble over that.”

Peter studied his pasta a moment, and then sighed.  She was apparently a little brighter than he had thought.  Of course, she had to be intelligent to get through Quantico, but some of them weren’t terrible quick.  And then, it was entirely possible she had had help with her conclusion, as well.

“It doesn’t make me happy.”  He admitted, after a moment.  “I would much rather be able to trust that he’ll go straight, and not need it, and, preferably, work at my side as my partner.  But, that’s as likely as the moon falling out of the sky tomorrow.  He’s my friend, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ignore his faults.  The tracker at least makes him stop to think before he causes trouble.  Even if it is just to try and find a clever way around it.  And it keeps him close enough that I can usually make sure he doesn’t go too far off book.”  He looked over to where the two criminals were by the stairs, Neal sitting on one of the lower steps, Reddington standing, apparently relaying some sort of story.  The elder shook his head in what was obviously dismay and Neal laughed, turning his head then, catching Peter’s gaze.  The laughter faded into a cheerful smile, the blue eyes alight, and Peter couldn’t help but smile in return, returning his gaze to Keen, then.

“You can’t tell me you wouldn’t mind being able to rein your CI in, if you could.”

“I _would_ like to know how you managed it.  Most often I’m the one who’s being ‘handled’.”  Peter considered a moment, and then gave a mental shrug.  It couldn’t really hurt, he supposed, although he doubted she could bring Reddington to heel anyway.  Too young and inexperienced.

“First off, you have to remember that we had seven years to get to know each other before I took him on.  Neal caught my attention, and then I caught his.  We chased each other for three years before he slipped up.  I knew everything about him, from his favourite foods and drinks to his preference in underwear.  I understood his personality and the way he thought.  After I put him away, it really should have been through between us, but he would send me Christmas and birthday cards from prison.  He respected me because I was clever and stubborn enough to keep up with him.  I could challenge him at the game.

“The real secret, though, at the beginning, was the powerplay.  Neal suggested the arrangement, practically begged me to make it happen.  I did, and it’s the best decision I ever made, but that gave me the control.  With a few words I could send him right back to spend the rest of the four years in the Supermax.  I wasn’t shy about reminding him about that fact, either.  In order to keep the control in a relationship like that, you need to convince the other person that they want what you can give them more than you want what they can give you.  It requires commitment and, occasionally, a lot of patience.  Of course, with us, now, it’s different.”

“What is?”  Neal asked, coming back over.  A quick glance showed that Reddington was on his phone now.

“Agent Keen was asking how I kept you in line.”

“I let you, of course.”  Peter smirked knowingly.

“Of course.  The fact that I’m all that stands between you and a prison cell has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh, well, if you want to bring that into it…”

“You’re in a good mood now.  Should I ask?”

“Drawing.”  Neal nodded toward the pad.  “Just like painting.”

“Hmm.  I thought that.  And your chat with Reddington didn’t hurt, I’m sure.  Swapped a few stories?”

“We might have.”

Peter nodded knowingly, then gave him a warning look.  “Don’t get any ideas.”  Neal just tried to look innocent.

“Good news.”  Ressler interrupted, as he and Navabi approached.  Neal discretely put Peter and the desk between himself and her.  She just gave him a knowing smirk.  “We might have found the woman and the child.”

“Where are they?  Are they safe?”  Neal stepped back around Peter and the agent took the opportunity to make a quick negating gesture to the pair.

“We don’t know the exact location.”  The Mossad agent answered, smoothly enough that Peter wasn’t sure whether that had been the original answer or not.  “But we’ve narrowed it down to a few places just outside the city, and we have some people following up.”

“Where’s the list of addresses?”

Peter noticed Keen moving to stand and rose himself, bumping Neal and drawing the CI’s attention to himself while the other agent disappeared down the hall toward the boardroom.

“Calm down, Neal.  We will find them.  I promise.”  The CI just gave him an irritated look, easily catching the way they avoided answering his questions, though he hadn’t seemed to have noticed Keen’s disappearance.

“Aram’s got the pictures up on the screens.”  Navabi offered, as a compromise, and Neal was already moving down the hall.  Peter sighed.

“You don’t want him to know where they are.”  The Iranian commented.  “He’ll try to go after them himself?”

“He might.  The last time he found out where a missing girlfriend was, I was literally the _only_ thing that stopped him from getting on a plane just before it blew up.  I’d rather not have a repeat, or worse.”  And he moved around the desk, following after his friend.

 

******

 

There were four images up on the screen, each a different house.  Neal was staring at them intently, his eyes narrowed in anger, while Mojtabai was standing at the computer, looking nervous, Keen just behind him.  The CI turned his glare on Peter when he entered the room, but quickly turned back to the screen.

“You told them not to tell me.”  He hissed.

“We will find them.”  Peter held the blue gaze firmly.  “Together.”  Neal just muttered a reply under his breath and returned to studying the houses.  Most likely trying to glean any clues to their locations.

“Agent Burke?”  Mojtabai spoke up.  “I finished fixing that bug.”  The tech glanced at Neal, who appeared to be ignoring them, and went into the server room.  Peter followed after him, watching as he brought up the code.

“It wasn’t easy, I had to write a whole new block of code to control the way the bracelet and anklet send signals to each other, and then modify the control algorithms.  The tracer’s original programming was a bit of a mess, honestly, I cleaned it up while I was at it.”  A sound at the door drew his attention and Peter looked over as well, to see Neal standing there, hands in his pockets, leaning against the door frame, a neutral expression on his face.

“Go on.”  Peter encouraged, turning back to the computer.  The tech looked uncertain still, but cleared his throat and continued. 

“Both the anklet and the bracelet should give an audible alert when the anklet goes out of range, or is opened, either by the signal from the bracelet or… or some other fashion.”  He finished quickly.

“And it can’t be hacked?”

“Well, not easily.  Not by someone without some _really_ good computer skills.  The signal is set to an exact control code, and the server changes it on a routine basis, to avoid someone working out the code.”  Peter smiled, and clapped him on the back.

“That should do.  Good work.”  He stood and walked back over to the door, Neal moving back as he stepped through, rolling his shoulder against the frame so he was leaning against the wall, looking up at the images on the screen again.  Liz, it seemed, had left again, and the room was empty otherwise.

“So I’m off house arrest.”  Neal said flatly.

“I would have thought you’d be happier.”

“How long?”  Peter frowned faintly, already knowing his partner wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Until I take it off.”

“Yeah.”  Neal breathed, straightening.  “That’s what I thought.”

“If I could trust you, Neal-”

“You’re never going to trust me, Peter.”  Neal broke in angrily.

“Well, whose fault is that?”  Peter regretted the words as soon as they came out.  Neal looked like he had been slapped, for just an instant, before the mask came down again and he moved to leave.

“Neal, wait.  You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No,” The CI turned back, running a hand through his hair, a sure sign of his upset.  “No, Peter, you’re right.  I burned the bridges, dug my grave, made my bed.  Now I have to lie in it, don’t I?”  He glanced at the images of the houses.  “Just, find her.  Please?”  And with that he was gone.

Peter frowned after him a long moment, struck by his words.  Suddenly he turned back, going back over to where Aram was pretending he hadn’t heard the altercation.

“I wonder if you could do me another favour.  See what you can find on Neal’s girlfriend.  He said her name _now_ was Laurie, when we first talked, but he keeps on referring to her as Annemarie, which means they must have had a history before.  I know it would be easier with a last name, but maybe she might pop up attached to this latest alias of his or one of his older ones.  He’s particularly fond of the Nick Halden one.  I want to know everything you can find about her _and_ her baby.  And don’t tell anyone you don’t have to.  Especially not Neal.”

“Yes, sir, right away.”  His brow furrowed.  “Do you think she might be playing him?”

“No.”  He frowned worriedly.  “I’m hoping it’s not that, either, but I’m starting to think this isn’t just another ‘Kate’.”

Peter gave him another clap on the back, ignoring the confused look, and headed back out to the main room, pausing when he noticed his badge and wallet tossed on the desk, on top of Neal’s drawing pad.  Neal’s items, including his hat, were gone.  After a moment, the agent moved over to push the credentials aside and flipped the pad open.

Neal had gone up to the catwalk, apparently, at least for one sketch, a wide one of the room.  The other pages contained close-ups, a couple agents speaking together, and a few others going about their various jobs, Navabi sitting at her desk, writing something down, one of Aram in the server room, Cooper in his office.  A couple of Peter, talking on the phone, or jotting down notes.

One page, between the one of Cooper and Peter’s, had been torn out.

Following a hunch, Peter moved along the line of sight Neal must have used for the close-up drawings, and, sure enough, found a small recycling bin with a single crumpled piece of paper in it.  He picked it up and smoothed it out.

This one was Peter as well, but it wasn’t finished.  He was at his desk, again, in mid-reach for something, the sleeve of his jacket pulled back a bit.

The control bracelet Peter wore was silver-coloured, and actually looked like one of those new smart-watches.  The clasp that secured it consisted of an interlocking clip that took a bit of time to work one-handed, to foil a quick removal, which was then hidden by a cover that made it look like a plain foldover clasp.

The bracelet in the drawing looked the same visually, or, at least, what had been drawn was, since that was the unfinished part, but what was drawn was far darker, the picture making it look like it was gunmetal, or possibly even black.  Peter went back to his desk and checked, the other drawings were missing the bracelet altogether.  The symbolism wasn’t lost on him.  Rather than trying to steal it, as Peter had feared, it seemed Neal was trying to ignore it as much as possible.

Well, wearing a slightly longer-sleeved jacket wouldn’t hurt anything.  He recrumpled the paper and dropped it in his own wastebasket, then brought up Neal’s map and returned to his work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I watched the end of season 5, and 6, and then got very depressed. It wasn't pretty. Personally, I think it might have been better if they had put just a little tiny scene in there of Peter digging Neal's FBI folder out or something, like a 'here we go again' thing. The way they ended it just seemed so final...
> 
> Oh, great. I just made myself depressed again...
> 
> Anyway, warnings for depressed Neal, because I like to spread the misery around. 
> 
> And there will be actual plot next chapter. This is really dragging out a bit more than I had expected. And, hopefully a little more 'blacklist' and less 'white collar in D.C.'. I dunno...
> 
> On that note, am I confusing anybody who doesn't know one of the series? I'll admit I tend to gloss over things that I think other people might already know about, but I know it would be annoying to have to have a wiki page open to understand the story...

“That only leaves the one out by Mitchellville.”  Liz cleared the third house off the screens.  Samar and Ressler had gone out to check the potential locations, leaving her at the Post Office to catch up on paperwork.

Burke had left earlier, begging out of the search by pointing out that he didn’t really know the area that well.  He had made a comment about wanting to get a permanent home point set up for the tracker as well, now that he had an idea of Neal’s usual travel patterns.  The criminal’s apartment was just about 2 miles away from the Post Office, which made setting it at either place impractical.  (He had shared a story about a parolee who had had to bathe with one foot out of the tub.  Liz wasn’t sure she believed it.)  The agent’s FBI hotel room, ironically enough, had been only a dozen blocks away from being right between the two points, which would give the criminal plenty of leeway on either side.

“That’s got to be where they are, then,” Ressler commented, “or else we need to go back to the drawing board.  It’s a little after 6, now.  We can be there by about 7 30 or so.”

“I’ll call Burke and let him know what we have so far.”

“Check and see what his convict is up to, while you’re at it.”  Ressler commented.

“I would think Burke would tell us, if something was happening.”  Liz answered. 

“I’ve been reading up on them.”  Ressler countered.  “There were a lot of questions floating around before Caffrey split.  Some people thought Burke gave him too much free rein.”

“Well, I could probably have Aram check his GPS logs, too, they’re stored here.”

“Aram’s still there?”  Samar broke in.

“Yeah, he’s been searching something on the computer for Burke.  He wouldn’t tell me what, but I spotted the name Annemarie, and one of Caffrey’s old alias.”

“Think he’s trying to find more info on this girlfriend?”  Ressler mused.

“I would.”  Samar answered.  “Caffrey hasn’t been all that forthcoming with information on her.”

“Well,” Liz said thoughtfully.  “Has anyone actually asked him about her?”

 

******

 

Peter frowned and looked over at the laptop as it beeped at him.  Neal had hit the edge of his radius.  A moment and the warning disappeared.  Peter watched a moment more, and then returned to the casefile.

Ten minutes later, the warning lit up again.  Neal was further north this time, brushing against the edge again.  And, again, the warning faded after a moment.

Another few minutes, and another warning.  And again a few minutes after that.  Peter just smirked knowingly.  He turned the laptop’s audio off, but continued to watch as his CI slowly made his way around the radius of his circle.  It was the same thing he had done his first night out in New York, testing the anklet, finding the limits.

Here, though, it was odd.  The home point was locked, now, he could switch control back over to the bracelet, of course, but the other man wouldn’t, or, at least, shouldn’t, know that.  It was strange for him to be mapping out the limits when, for all he knew, they could change at any time.

It was about then that Keen called, Neal just finishing the circle, hanging around that spot.  He assured her that the con was behaving fine, and explained, when she brought it up, that Neal could be very close-mouthed about his girlfriends, especially where Peter was concerned, but that he was planning on asking him.  He wasn’t really that surprised to find out that they all knew about his search.  He had hoped, but keeping secrets in a close-knit group of professional investigators like that could be difficult, after all.  He had only managed it so well with Neal because the CI had been the outsider then.

He watched Neal’s tracer a little longer after he hung up, then checked occasionally after that, but the line just moved to a spot a little inside the radius and bounced around there.

 

******

 

Peter got distracted with the case work, and stopped paying attention to the computer, barely noticing when it went into standby.  It was only far later, after dark, when he straightened, realising what time it was, and headed for the bathroom.

By the time he came back, the couch had a new occupant.

“You’re on my couch.”

“And there’s not even a pretty wife to suck up to this time.  You gonna kick me out?”  Peter paused, moving around the couch to look at him.

“Are you drunk?”

“Might be.”  Neal admitted, playing absently with a corked wine bottle.  “A little bit.”  His gaze was on the computer that still sat on the coffee table.

“Why are you drunk on my couch?”

“Where else would I go?  Mozz is… wherever Mozz is.  I don’t know.  New York still?  I assume Sara’s in London, and Alex…”  He shrugged.  “Who else does Neal Caffrey have?”  There was a bit of a bitter twist on the name.  Peter sat down on the couch beside him, realising the computer had come out of standby, and the map was up, the green dot pulsing brightly right in the middle of it.  Peter reached over and closed the lid, but Neal’s gaze didn’t move.

“It was more the drunk part I was wondering about.”

“There’s my life.”  He commented morosely.  “A spot on a map.  I’m a career criminal and my best friend’s a cop.  The cop that’s holding my leash.  How’s that for self-destructive…”

“I think you have had enough.”  Peter pushed aside the warm feeling at the ‘best friend’ part, more worried about the rest of the statement, and reached out to take the bottle, not surprised to find it wasn’t even half-full.  Probably wasn’t his first, either.  Neal didn’t protest.  The agent felt relieved that he had taken the bracelet off earlier, the item currently locked in the wall safe.  He wasn’t used to seeing the younger man acting like this, and the sight of the controller most likely wouldn’t have helped.

“I saved a girl tonight.  At the first bar.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”  Neal’s frown didn’t seem to agree.

“There were some guys, slipped something into her drink, and I warned her about it.  Just a little girl.  She called me a hero.”

“A lot of people would call you a hero.  You _have_ helped a lot of people, and you’ve helped put a lot of dangerous criminals away.”

“I’m not a hero.  I only ever did it because it was fun.  And so people would like me.  So _you_ would like me.”  Neal twisted his lips into a bitter smile.

“I do like you, Neal.”  Peter patted his leg soothingly.  “I don’t like some of the things you do, and you drive me up the wall way too often, but you’re like-”

“Please don’t say son.  It’s too cliché.”  The agent just smirked at him.

“We both know you’re too old for that, for all you don’t act like it.  You are like an annoying, pain-in-the-ass baby brother, always tagging along behind me and getting me into trouble.”  Neal huffed a laugh, closing his eyes and just relaxing for a long moment.  Peter was actually wondering if he had fallen asleep when he spoke again.

“It makes it easier to con people when they like you.”  He looked over at Peter, and the blue eyes were empty for once, all his masks and deceptions gone.  It was a bit frightening.  Peter had the feeling that he could have asked anything right now, and gotten an honest answer.  “I’m sorry.  All those times, all those schemes and deceptions and lies…  I wanted to be good…”

“I know you did.  I know you do.  I want to help you, but you need to work with me, Neal.”  There was another long moment of silence.

“You remember Dr. Summers?”

“How could I forget?  You showed up at my place high as a kite and ready to tell me anything I asked.”  Peter sighed, standing and taking the bottle to set it on top of the minibar, filling up a glass of water.

“What did you ask me?”

“If you knew anything about Siegel.  You hedged around it, and then I asked you what you weren’t telling me.  I didn’t have time to get a real answer, Mozzie came in.”

“That answer could have filled a textbook,” the thief admitted, then added, “you could have tried it again…”  Peter set the glass down on the coffee table and scowled at him.

“I am not going to drug you in order to get information out of you.  It’s dangerous, it’s illegal, and I would never stop feeling guilty about it.”

“I would…”  Neal pushed himself up, swaying over to the window with more grace than he really should have been able to manage, leaning against the frame and staring out.

“You would drug me?”  The agent gave him an incredulous look.

“I…  No…  Not you.”  He admitted.  Peter waited.  This had to be going somewhere, but he couldn’t quite see where.

“She told me I was a sociopath.  That I couldn’t change, no matter how much I tried to.”

“I’m not sure you should be taking advice from someone who drugged and preyed on her clients.”  Peter pointed out.

“What if she wasn’t wrong, though?  I was going to…”

“Neal, don’t.”  The last thing Peter wanted, or needed, right now was for Neal to confess to him while he was drunk off his ass. 

“When I met Annemarie.”  Neal continued, as if he hadn’t heard him.  “I was casing a museum.  I got distracted by her, and my chance passed.”

“You didn’t steal anything.”  Peter couldn’t help the relief in his voice, but Neal misread it, for once.

“Not from there.  I was going to.  Not because I needed the money or anything.  Just because it was there.”

“Even if you are, and I don’t know, I’m not a psychologist, although I very much doubt it, it doesn’t mean anything.  There are plenty of sociopaths, the majority of them, actually, who live completely normal lives within the bounds of the law, who have friends, and lovers, and families.  The fact that you’re even worried about it means you’re far from a lost cause.  _You_ told me that crime was an addiction.  Addictions can be fought.”

“50 to 90% of addicts relapse.”  Neal pointed out.

“They don’t have a GPS tracker and me on their ass.”  Peter countered.  Neal remained silent, apparently accepting that fact.

“Everybody should have a Peter.”  He said, finally, and the agent gave him an amused look.  The criminal stepped away from the window then, back over to where Peter stood, the older man pulling him into a tight hug that he relaxed into easily.

Neal spent the rest of the evening dozing quietly on the couch, while Peter, after actually managing to get Annemarie’s last name, LeClaire, and a roughly drawn (but still accurate, of course) sketch of her before his recalcitrant CI clammed up, worked on a couple more cases and watched football, the volume turned down low.

 

******

 

“-no June’s, that’s for sure.”  Neal blinked, wondering where he was, and why his head hurt so much.  “He’s already situated, though, and with the extra money, we could find a duplex or a place with an accessory apartment or something…”

Peter’s voice, talking to someone, and slowly his memories filtered back in.  Going to the bar for a few drinks to drown his sorrows, then the girl, and another bar after that, and then the liquor store.  Finally to the motel at the center of his radius, and Peter, and his subsequent confession, such as it had been.  Now, he was stretched out on the couch in just his underwear, covered over with a blanket, a throw pillow under his head.  The fact that Peter must have undressed him was a bit embarrassing, but it wasn’t the first time, though under other circumstances, and he wasn't exactly body-shy.

“I already mentioned that.  I'd be allowed to pick cases out, when I wanted, and he’d fit right in, I’m sure.”  Peter leaned on the back of the couch, glancing down at him, his phone to his ear.

“I think it could actually work this time.”  The brown gaze met Neal’s, with an intensity that made him a bit nervous.

“I didn’t do it.”  He said, automatically.  Peter rolled his eyes.

“I have no clue.”  He told the person on the phone, then, to Neal; “Elle wants to know what you didn’t do.”

“I don’t know.  But I didn’t do it.”  He pushed himself up slowly, wincing.  Peter gestured to the table, where a bottle of painkillers sat, along with a glass of water and Peter’s hangover cure.

“Ah, yes, your favourite policy.  Deny everything.”

“Unless not denying it works better.”  Neal downed the pills and the water, giving the pickle juice a distasteful look.

“He’s a regular chip off the old block.”  Peter said over the phone, fatherly pride clear in his voice.  “Baby Neal got ahold of my spare handcuffs and is playing with them.”  He said to the older Neal, then to Elle again; “He’ll be cuffing the bad guys before you know it.  Maybe I’ll let him practice on Neal Sr.”

“Okay, one, never call me that again, it makes me sound like I’m 50.”  Peter gave him a faux-insulted look, “and two, I am not letting your son wrap me up in metal.  Your obsession with it is bad enough.”  He grabbed the pickle juice and his clothing and stalked off toward the bathroom.

“Is he all right?”  Elle asked over the phone.

“He’s fine.  He’s just grumpy when he’s hung over.  Probably a little embarrassed over his big bout of depression last night, too.”  He raised his voice at the last and was rewarded with the bathroom door slamming loudly.

“Honestly, though,” Peter continued, quieter, “there’s something off.  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but he’s hiding something.”

“Well, he _is_ Neal.”  Elle pointed out, as she took the cuffs away from Baby Neal, and set a bowl of dry Cherrios in front of him instead.  “He can’t _not_ hide something.  He’s probably planning how to steal the twins’ money without you being able to prove it.”

“No, this isn’t planning-a-heist-under-your-nose Neal.  This is in-over-my-head-but-I’m-not-going-to-tell-you Neal.”

“It’s actually a little creepy that you know the difference.  Especially after two years.”

“Instinct.  It’s like chicken-sorting.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, you always do.”

“Hopefully not before it comes around to bite me in the ass.”  The bathroom door opened and Neal slunk out, looking a bit neater, if not any happier.

“And I love you too, Hon,” Peter quickly added, getting a quick ‘bye’ before he hung up.

“I need to go home and change.”  Neal muttered.

“I have a couple more of your suits in the closet.”

“Naomi doesn’t like it when I wear suits, she says I attract too much attention.”

“Because you don’t attract any attention with the pretty boy look, of course.”  Peter went to open the wall safe, retrieving the bracelet and closing it around his wrist.  Neal pointedly pretended not to notice.

“No, that would be why _Alexis_ doesn’t want me to wear suits.”

“She doesn’t like the attitude, but she has no problem with the eye candy.  I understand completely.”

“All right, between that and the cuff obsession, you’re starting to worry me.”

“Afraid I’m going to chain you to my bedroom wall for me to look at?”  Peter smirked.  “The thought had crossed my mind.  It’d be easier to keep track of you.”

“You’re giving off that creepy old guy vibe.”  Peter just grinned, Neal huffing and pacing over to get his bottle of wine as the agent holstered his gun and shrugged into his jacket.

“Come on, Angel Eyes.  I’ll drop you off.”  He said, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door.

“Please tell me you’re not going to do that all day.”  Neal pleaded, quickly following after him.

 

******

 

After the night before, Peter would have much preferred that Neal stayed close, which meant going to the Post Office with him, but the younger man was having none of it.

“I’ll be fine.  Don’t worry about it.  I just get chatty and depressed when I get drunk.  It’s why I don’t get drunk.”  Peter gave him a concerned look, which Neal returned with his most charming smile.  The agent just shook his head, lips tilting slightly.

“The anklet’s home point is still based on the hotel, unless I switch it to mobile, which will get you over there anyway, if you decide to stop by later.”

“And listen to all your cutesy names?  I’ve got some better things to do.”  Peter gave him a suspicious look, and he just smiled back innocently.

“Promise me you won’t do anything that I’ll have to arrest you for.”

“I can’t be held accountable for anything I do under duress.”  Neal countered, then his expression soured.  “Did you find her?”

“Not yet.  Someone _had_ been at the last house Ressler and Navabi checked last night, but whoever it was was gone when they got there.  There’s a team going over it right now.”  Neal nodded solemnly.

“We will find them.”  Peter promised.  Neal managed another smile, though there was more than a hint of worry behind it.

“Sure.  That’s what you do, after all.”  He slid out of the car easily, and paused before closing the door, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  “Maybe I will stop by, just to make sure you remember your afternoon nap, Grandpa.”  He shut the door, and Peter promptly rolled the window down.

“Watch it, Sweetcheeks.  I know where you live.”  Neal just waved, heading up the steps to the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one's a little short, but that line just screamed to be ended on...

Cooper was just getting out of the car when Peter pulled into the parking lot.  The NY agent had stopped along the way, picking up coffee for the main team and a large box each of donuts and muffins for anybody else.  The A.D. gave the boxes a curious look.

“Has he caused that much trouble already?  I’ve heard he can be a handful, but everything seemed fine yesterday.”  The senior agent helpfully took the donuts and a drink tray.

“Oh, no, everybody likes Neal.  The only people who don’t are usually trying to kill him.  His first day on the anklet, he managed to talk his way into a rich widow’s guest suite, complete with a full closet of designer suits.  He’s like a cat, he always lands on his feet.”  The two headed up toward the building.  “Unless there’s a woman involved.”

“I know someone else with that particular trait…  Always ten steps ahead.  If he makes a mistake, it usually involves Agent Keen.”

“Reddington.”  Peter nodded.  “Eventually he’ll find someone who can catch up with him, I’m sure.  There’s always someone who’s smarter than you are.”

“So, which of you two is the smarter?”

“I used to think it was me.”  Peter shook his head, fishing in his pocket for his ID to show the guard at the elevator.  “Now…  Well, I think it might be a hung jury.”  Cooper nodded.

“Not a bad view to take.  If you assume you’re smarter than your opponent, you run the risk of being proven wrong.  Just between you and me, I always assume Reddington’s ahead of me.  Although, he usually is, so…”  He shrugged and led the way to the kitchenette, setting down the items he carried.

Peter had just set his load down as well, when his phone rang.  Peter glanced at the ID and then answered.  He had found Neal’s phone the night before, and had programmed his number into it, and vice versa.

“Big Brother?”  Neal grumped when he answered.

“Vague enough, and a nice reminder for you that I’m always watching.”  Peter pointed out.  “Did you phone just to complain about my number ID?”  Cooper took his coffee and a muffin and nodded goodbye to Peter, heading off towards the catwalk and his office.

“No.”  Neal sounded faintly worried.  “No, Naomi just phoned and called me in.  I didn’t think anything about it, but she’s got some guy here, too, and I think they’re doing a bug search.”

“It’s fine.”  Peter answered.  “There’s a button on the underside of the cuff’s faceplate.  Press it and the cuff will stop transmitting for five minutes.  That should be plenty of time.  I’ll unlock it as well, but it had better go back around your ankle after.”

“Yeah, sure.”  The con answered flippantly.

“Promise, Neal.”  Agent Navabi stepped into the room, a mug in hand.

“Fine.”  The word was an angry hiss.  “I promise.”

“And, Neal…  Be careful.”  Peter warned, then added, as an afterthought.  “Babyface.”  Neal gave an exasperated huff in response and hung up.

“Babyface?”  Navabi asked curiously, eyeing the coffee cups.

“Help yourself,” he offered, “I brought them in for us.  They’re black, I wasn’t sure about preferences.”

“We’ve got cream and sugar here.  Thank you.”

 “I’ve been calling him cute nicknames all morning.  It’s fun to get under his skin for once, usually it’s the other way around.”  Navabi raised a brow, then just looked amused and opened the cupboard to reach for the sugar.

 

******

 

Neal gave his phone an irritated look and tucked it away before opening the door of the bar Naomi had set up the meeting in.  He wasn’t really mad at Peter, not any more than usual.  The older man had been right, after all, the day before.  Looking at their past, Neal _couldn’t_ be trusted, any more than he was capable of fully giving that trust.  Their relationship was like a sword duel, cut and parry, feint and counter-feint, attack and retreat.  When it worked, though, when they synced up, they _danced_ , beautiful and perfect.  Until one of them mistepped.

No, the glare was more for appearances.  If anyone was watching, and checked the phone after, it would make it look like nothing more than an argument with his ‘Big Brother’.  Peter thought he could be such a hoot sometimes, but it was, admittedly, so obvious that it would be instantly dismissed.

Both Naomi and Alexis turned to look at him when he came in.  The pair were identical, green eyes and straight dirty-blond hair, but even if they hadn’t been dressed differently, with different hairstyles, Alexis’s cut close, Naomi’s longer and pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, Neal would have been able to tell them apart.  Alexis had a calculating sharpness to her gaze, like she was always trying to figure out the best way to attack, while Naomi’s eyes were just calm.  Neal preferred to deal with Naomi.  She didn’t particularly care who she hurt, when they got in her way, but she didn’t go out of her way to cause damage, either.

“Drop your phone in the basket there.”  Naomi ordered, approaching him with the scanner.  Neal did so, and then bent as if to scratch his ankle, deliberately drawing attention to the cuff.

“What’s that?”  Alexis spoke up.

“Just a present from a friend.”  The con answered flippantly.  “I liked the look of it, so I decided to try it out.”

“Let me see.”

Neal obediently reached to twist the anklet around, locating and pressing the tiny button (small enough that he had missed it before, when he had been concentrating on the clasp side) while he did so, and tugged at the clasp cover like it was sticking.  Quickly enough to not be suspicious, it opened.  Neal breathed an inward sigh of relief, though the fact that someone had thought to put the killswitch in was only another sign that it wouldn’t be coming off as often and easily as the others had.

Naomi took the cuff when he held it out, quickly running the scanner over it, then paused to admire it.  It was nice enough, Neal supposed, not really his style (after 4 years, anklets in general weren’t his style), but not something he couldn’t have pulled off.  He hadn’t really paid too much attention to its looks before.  It matched the bracelet, a heavy flattened close-linked chain band, the same faux clasp cover, which locked down when closed, although that wasn’t casually noticeable when it was open, and a wide thick faceplate where the controls were on the bracelet, a decorative celtic knot design enamelled in black along it, small LEDs at meeting points in the knot, currently lit up in green.  No, it certainly wasn’t something that looked like an ankle monitor.

Although there was some adjustment depending on how far under the clasp one moved the chain’s clip bar, it was clearly wouldn’t have fit Naomi or Alexis.  She handed it back reluctantly, and Neal bent and locked it back into place, keeping his thoughts blank.  Thinking about it might make him hesitate, or give himself away in some other fashion.  Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t as hard as he had thought it would be.

Once he stood, Naomi gestured for him to follow and went further back into the building where the stranger stood.  Neal eyed him curiously, deciding immediately that he didn’t like him.  There was a dangerous air about him that reminded Neal of Reddington, but where the FBI’s CI wore a veneer of affability over it, this man threw it out, openly.  He was almost as slender as Neal himself, brown-eyed and black-haired, with a slightly European cast to his features.

“So, you’re the famous Neal Caffrey.”  The man drawled in a southern accent.  Naomi gave him a suddenly suspicious look.  He hadn’t shared his real name with them.  Neal was surprised, but kept his expression cool.

“I don’t go by that name any more.  Too many people in inconvenient places recognize it.”  He wasn’t lying.  Up until Peter had called him down in that alley, he hadn’t used it once.  Far too dangerous.  If the FBI had gotten even a hint that their favourite prisoner was still alive, he would have been cornered and hustled off to D.C. under trumped-up charges before Peter even had a chance to _think_ about coming after him.  Would probably have been given to a real hard-ass, too, someone who’d pen him up until they wanted him to come out and perform.

Not that that hadn’t stopped them from finding him anyway, but Reddington’s taskforce did seem a little more flexible, and he was, if he had read the situation right, on _Peter’s_ anklet, not the FBI’s (though that still left the question of where, exactly, he had gotten it, they probably weren’t cheap, at all).  It was entirely possible that no one outside that building even suspected he was still around.

“You can call me Sean.”  He offered a smile.  “And what should I call you?”

“Zane Keates.”  Neal’s eyes widened slightly.  He had heard of the man, in rumours.  If only half of them were true, he was definitely not someone Neal wanted to be dealing with.  Nearly every major government on the planet would have liked to bring him down, but any agent who went after him ended up dead or wishing they were.

“Oh, dear.  Seems I’m a bit tardy.”  A new voice broke in, and Reddington swept into the room from one of the back entrances, followed, of course, by Dembe.  Alexis, Naomi, and Zane all had guns in their hands and pointed at the newest arrival, while Neal just took half a dozen quick steps back and towards a table.  If there was going to be a shootout, he wanted to be _well_ out of the way.

“Well, we’ll just call it fashionably late.”  The Concierge of Crime continued, as if he didn’t have three guns pointed at him.

“Reddington.”  Zane growled.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

“The same thing as you, I imagine.  Looking to make a deal.  Sean, was it?”  He raised his voice a bit, nodding to Neal.”  Fetch some glasses and a bottle of scotch.  Make sure it’s a good one.”  Neal hesitated, but then moved cautiously behind the bar.  It was a better hiding place than a table anyway.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand.”  Naomi spat out.

“Because I know what you’re after.”  The older criminal answered.  “I know where it is, and, most importantly, I know how to get it.  Having a world class thief is a good start,” Neal flipped a couple glasses up onto the counter and poured a fingerful of scotch into each expertly, then grinned brightly, honestly pleased by the praise.  Reddington smiled indulgently at him as he took one of the glasses.  “But if you’re going to break into the Whitehouse, you’re going to need a few other things.  Things I can get.  Unless, of course, you want to risk this whole thing on one cat burglar who has, after all, already been caught before.”

“For bond forging.  And there were extenuating circumstances.”  Neal protested.  “They could never prove anything else, and I did plenty of jobs right under the FBI’s nose afterwards, as well.”  All right, so the only reason he had managed most of them was because it was _Peter_ , who covered for him more times than he could count (and a hell of a lot more than he deserved, honestly) and not somebody else, like Siegel, who would have tossed him back into a cell at even a hint of wrong-doing, but still…

“Shut up.”  Alexis ordered Neal.  The con glared at her, but stepped back.  They all did still have their guns out, after all.  “I think we should just shoot the both of you,” she waved at Keates and Reddington, “and take our chances alone.”

“I really wouldn’t put much faith in those chances, my dear.”  Reddington answered her.  “Before you even got on the property, you would have the FBI, at least, onto your scent, and who knew who else.”  Neal carefully kept his features neutral, a little curious, as if he really didn’t care what job they lined up for him, or his place in it.  Zane glanced at Neal, thoughtfully, then set his gun down on the bar, finally.  Neal darted out of the direction of the barrel.

“Fine.”  He said, “Let’s talk.  I prefer beer.”  Neal held back from rolling his eyes, and fetched a couple beers from the fridge for him and Naomi, and a bottle of wine for Alexis.

“Oh, do put those away.”  Reddington huffed as Neal skirted very carefully across the gun’s line of sight.  “You’re making our boy nervous, and a nervous thief makes mistakes.”  Alexis and Naomi exchanged looks, and then both, reluctantly, holstered their weapons.  Zane simply gave Neal a pointed look and left his where it was.  Well, the conman decided, it was better than nothing, especially when Dembe _casually_ moved to take the other glass of scotch, standing close enough to intercept if Zane reached for the weapon.  It was probably for his boss’s benefit, but it did make Neal feel a bit better.

“Well, then, if we’re all settled, and if our fine thief agrees to help, let’s get down to business.”  Reddington looked to Neal, head tilted, waiting for his confirmation.

Get involved in a plot to break into and, presumably, rob the _Whitehouse_ with two of the most dangerous men on the planet and two women who didn’t trust him any further than they could throw him, all of whom were as likely as not to try to kill him once the job was done?  Peter was going to throw a fit.  No, Peter was going to throw the mother of all fits.  Neal wouldn’t be allowed out of his sight for the next year.  He’d probably end up chained up in the Burkes’ basement, if he survived this.

He grinned cheerfully.  “Sounds like fun.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the pause. I knit and crochet and do houswork to try to make ends meet, and have had a busy month. I'm still working on finishing a plastic canvas bible cover for the not-boyfriend (He isn't, technically, but he behaves like he is, presents and dates and stuff), and a sweater for my mom that I started back at the end of November. Both were supposed to be Christmas presents.
> 
> And you know what, now after all this hype over stealing something from the White House, I haven't quite figured out what it is they're supposed to take. Gonna have to think that one over some...

”You do know the women can’t be trusted.”  Reddington stood casually beside his car as Keates got out of his own, Dembe leaning against the hood, as if this was just a friendly meeting.  The cop killer had followed the other criminal to a parking lot behind some empty store after the get-together at the bar had ended, for a more private conversation.

“I am aware of that.  I will deal with them when our business is done.  I am more interested in your boy.”  The taller man pulled out a cigarette and lit it.  “Is he safe?”

“Caffrey?  No.”  The words were thrown out carelessly, an unimportant bit of knowledge.  “He wasn’t lying, he did fake his death to escape the FBI, but I pointed them in his direction, and his handler’s recently caught up with him again.  He’s not officially under the agency’s control, only under the agent’s, but it amounts to the same thing.”  Keates gave his counterpart a suspicious look.  Reddington only smiled agreeably.

“What game are you playing this time, Red?  You’re using an asset you gave back to the Feds?”

“Caffrey has a reputation for being temperamental.”  The crimelord admitted.  “He does what he wants, and likes to go his own way at inopportune moments.  Money doesn’t really interest him, he’s in it for the challenge.  Add to that his fear of firearms, and a strict non-aggression policy, and he’s practically uncontrollable, when the chips are down.  He is, though, one of the best, as he pointed out.”

“And the FBI keeps him around?”

“I did say practically.  He very loyal, and generally obeys his handler.  They’re quite the pair, apparently.  The bureau’s dream team.”  Reddington chuckled.  “It will be quite the embarrassment for them, I’d imagine.  They’ll make it easier for him to get what we want, and if he does get caught, it’s not quite the fiasco it would be if we had to dispose of a real associate.  You’re already known for being fairly cavalier with other people’s lives, I don’t want to get that reputation myself.  I’d prefer to be able to say the criminal I had killed was actually betraying me, rather than just making a mistake.”

“Semantics.”  Keates huffed with a careless shrug.  “If you’re stupid enough to make a mistake like that, then you take the consequences.”  He paused, considering, then dropped the remains of the cigarette and ground it out.  “If your boy betrays us, Red, it’s not just him I’ll kill.  I believe in being thorough.  If someone screws up, everyone’s going down.  The boy, the Handler, and you.”  He turned and slid back into the car, starting it up and driving off.

“What a charming individual.”  Red quipped sarcastically.

“Was it wise, admitting that to him?”  His bodyguard asked thoughtfully.

“He was already suspicious.  Blue was a busy boy with the bureau, and it’s starting to catch up with him.  _Neal Caffrey_ doesn’t have quite the good name he used to, although it’s not as bad as some agency pets.  But, if all goes well, I’ll get what I want, and everybody will come out of this alive.”

“Everybody?”  Dembe gave him an amused look, and Red smiled back at him.

“Well, everybody important.”  He amended, then moved to open the car door.  “Now, I believe we had a woman to track down.”

 

******

 

Whether she wanted children or not, Samar would make a good mother, Liz decided, watching the other woman entertaining Agnes.  She had brought the baby in to work with her, worried about the amount of time they were spending apart, especially with Tom gone off to reunite with his mother.

“I found them.”  Aram announced, sitting back at his computer.  “Or, well, I didn’t find them, exactly, just Miss LeClaire’s information.  Having her real last name made it a lot easier.”  Samar put Agnes back in her playpen, and she and Liz went over to see just what the other agent had found.

“Not exactly the innocent Caffrey portrayed, is she?”  Liz commented.

“People are rarely who we would like them to be.”  Samar pointed out.  “And Burke’s conman seems to be remarkably naïve in some respects.”

“Still.  Five aliases, suspected of multiple thefts and frauds, even an arrest for assault with a deadly weapon.”

“She hasn’t actually been charged for anything, though.”  Aram interjected.

“Probably played the frightened victim card.  I can’t see Burke liking this bit of news.”  Samar straightened, glancing over to the empty desk that had been given to the NY agent.  He had left only half an hour earlier, to meet with somebody, he hadn’t said who.

“Caffrey’s sketch is perfect, too.”  Liz commented, studying the mug shot of the woman, dark-haired and hazel-eyed.  The hair was a dye job, it seemed, her bio said she was a redhead.

“He is very good.”  The tech answered.  “I looked at that drawing book.  He drew a picture of me.”  He was obviously pleased by that.  “And one of Samar.”

“He drew me?  When?”  She walked over to the desk and picked up the sketchbook, and Liz, curious, followed after her, the two women flipping through the pages.  Aram was right, Samar conceded.  The drawings _were_ very good.  She was almost tempted to ask if she could buy the one he had done of Aram.

“He didn’t draw me at all.  Or Ressler.”  Liz commented.  The other woman gave her an amused look.

“Well, he doesn’t seem all that fond of Ressler, and you were gone with Reddington while he was drawing.  Maybe he would if you asked him.”

“Asked who what?”  The subject of their conversation asked, wandering up, dressed in overdyed black jeans and a pale blue dress shirt, hands in his jacket pockets.  His fedora hat sat on his head with a tilt, and it actually went with the outfit better than Liz would have thought.  The con eyed the sketchbook a moment, before smiling brightly, reaching to take it from Samar.

“So that’s where I left that.  Where’s Peter?”

“He said he was going to see somebody.”  Samar answered.

Agnes started fussing again and Liz went to pick her up.  Neal eyed the pair curiously.

“You have a baby?  How old is she?”  He set the sketchbook back down on the desk absently, dropping his hat on top of it, and moved over to look at the girl.

“This is Agnes.  She’s six months old.”

“Only a couple months younger than Angela.”  He commented.  “Can I hold her?”  Liz hesitated uncertainly, a moment too long, apparently.

“I understand.”  He said, stepping back.

“No,” Liz answered, “I didn’t mean it like that, sorry.  Here.”  She handed the baby over.

“She was kidnapped when she was only a couple of months.”  Samar spoke up.  Neal’s expression darkened.

“Anyone who would kidnap an innocent baby should be taken out and shot.”  Agnes stared at the strange man a long moment, and then burst into tears.  Neal looked faintly hurt.

“Sorry.”  Liz apologised again.  “She’s been playing strange lately.”  She took her back.

“It’s fine.”  The conman replied, then smiled playfully.  “Shocking as it is, there _are_ women who are resistant to the Caffrey charm.  They just need a little more convincing.”

“And I suppose it’s never failed.”  Samar commented dryly.

“Not since grade school.  Did you catch whoever it was?  Who kidnapped her?”  He clarified at Liz’s curious look.

“Well, we knew who it was.  My mother’s husband.  He, and we, thought he was my father.”  Liz explained.  “He was trying to get us away from Red, whether we liked it or not.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to kidnap a baby.”

“Do you have children?”  Aram asked then.

“Me?”  Neal’s expression showed mild surprise at the question.  “Well, there’s Angela, of course, if you want to count her.  Other than that, no.  My life isn’t really a good one for a child.  Even when the FBI had me tied down, I never planned for that to be permanent, despite their wishes.  Peter and Elle have a little boy, though.”  He grinned proudly.  “They named him Neal.”

Ressler strode out of his office then.

“Liz, have-”  He stopped when he saw Neal, giving him a suspicious look.  “Who let you in?”

“You didn’t authorise it?”  Samar gave the thief a sharp look, his expression complete innocence now.  Admittedly, he wasn’t _not_ allowed in, at the moment, but any security failure needed to be known about and fixed.

“No, I didn’t know he was here at all.”

“Maybe Cooper did.”  Liz pointed out, looking to the criminal then.  “Do you know?” Neal leaned a hip against the nearest desk, which happened to be Liz’s.

“Well, I didn’t want to bother anybody over it,” he began.

“You snuck in?”  The senior agent growled.

“No, not exactly.”  The con responded.  “I could, of course, but then I decided to just use my old badge.”  He produced the small wallet and flipped it open, showing his FBI consultant ID.

“You’re not supposed to have that.”  Ressler held his hand out to take it.  Neal’s expression turned faintly mulish, and he just tucked it back into his pocket.  Agnes was still fussing and Liz picked up the diaper bag and headed off to the bathroom.

“Impersonating a federal agent is a crime.”  Ressler pointed out.  “I could have you arrested.”

“I’m not impersonating an agent.  I’m not even impersonating a CI, since I technically am one, again.”

“But you weren’t while you were on the run.”  Samar pointed out.  She liked him, but Ressler did have a point.

“I wasn’t technically on the run, either.  That would imply that someone was looking for me.  Almost everyone thought I was dead.”  Ressler glared furiously.  Samar held back a sigh, wondering if she would have to file out a report explaining why Burke’s con got himself shot.

The elevator opened then, and footsteps echoed across the room as the other agent approached.  Neal had his back to the new arrival, but he apparently recognized the tread, since he seemed to take on a somewhat cockier air, if that was possible.  There was no point, except for when she had peeked in on him in the Red Box, when he hadn’t seemed perfectly confident, but now…  Well, Samar decided, if he were just a _bit_ more childish, and Burke would have let it pass, she could almost have expected him to point out that he had back-up, now.

The NY agent paused when he noticed the standoff, then his expression darkened a bit.

“What did you do _now_?”

“I just walked in, honestly.”  The conman said, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Did you know he still has his old credentials?”  Ressler demanded.  Burke gave his CI a faintly irritated look, holding out his hand.

“Sentimental value?”  Neal tried, but then, after a moment, reluctantly handed over the ID.

“I didn’t use it for anything.”  He protested.

“Uh, Agent Burke.”  Aram interrupted.  “I found that information you were asking for.”  Neal gave him a curious look.

“What information?”  He asked.

“Never mind.”  Peter set his briefcase down on his desk, picking up his mug and holding it out pointedly.  The younger man scowled, but did take it after a moment, stalking off to the kitchenette.

“Does he always behave like that?”  Ressler asked, the blond obviously still irritated.  Peter handed him the wallet.

“When he doesn’t, he’s either up to real trouble or something serious is bothering him.  Neither is something I prefer.”  Peter went over to look at the screen.

“What did you come out for?”  Samar asked Ressler.

“I wanted to know if Liz knew where Red was.  I just got a warning that Zane Keates is in the area, and I wanted to know if he knew about it.”  Samar’s expression darkened.  She hadn’t been sent after the fugitive herself, but she had known some agents who had, and hadn’t come back. 

“That is… convenient.”  The Mossad agent commented.  As big a deal as he was, it was extremely unlikely that their own CI didn’t know.

“That was what I thought, too.  I want to know exactly what he’s dragging us into this time.”

“I’m a bit more concerned about what he plans for Caffrey,” Samar murmured, keeping her voice low.  “He was very insistent that he needed him.”

“No ‘Laurie’?”  Peter asked Aram then, frowning.  The tech just shook his head.  “And nothing about the baby.  It’s a new alias, then.  Probably one Neal gave her.”  He scowled at the computer a moment, then frowned thoughtfully.

“Search the birth registry.  Try Halden, he likes that one.”  Aram’s expression brightened.

“I never thought to cross it with his aliases.”  He spoke up, typing at the keyboard a moment.  Samar and Ressler exchanged looks and went over.

“Would he really do that?”  The woman queried.

“It’s either really bold, or really stupid.”  Ressler agreed.

“Bold is Neal in a nutshell.  Always has been.  Especially if there’s a woman involved.”

“No, nothing under Halden.”  Aram interrupted.  “Let me check the others.”  There was a moment more of typing, and then; “Oh.”

“Son of a bitch.”  Peter hissed, as a certificate came up on the screen.

“Bold indeed.”  Samar mused.

“Lauren Caffrey.”  Aram read, “gave birth to a baby girl 8 months ago and named her…”

“Petra Caffrey.”  Peter continued, blandly.

“The father isn’t named.”  Aram pointed out. 

Neal came back into the room then, and froze, as four pairs of eyes focused on him.

“I’m innocent?”  He offered uncertainly.

“Petra Caffrey.”  Peter repeated.  Neal went pale.

“Oh.”  He murmured, then continued quickly.  “I was going to tell you.  It just never seemed like the right time…”  He shrugged apologetically.

“I don’t understand.”  Aram spoke up, brow furled in confusion.  “Why wouldn’t you tell anyone you have a baby?”  It was a good point, Samar thought.  If he trusted his handler as much as he seemed to, why not tell him?

“Oh, there’s always a reason.”  Peter answered.  “In this case, I would imagine he didn’t want me to find out he got conned.  _Again._ ”

There must have been a story behind that, the Iranian decided.  The context didn’t quite work, otherwise, although she knew some women did do things like that to keep a boyfriend.

“Her ex _was_ abusive.”  Neal hedged.  “I just didn’t realise she was too until well after she got pregnant.”  He offered a shrug and a careless smile, then, as if to say it was no big deal.  Peter’s expression darkened.

“Well, why didn’t you just take the baby after she was born and leave then?”  Ressler asked.  Neal gave him a look.

“She’d go to the police, of course.  Just imagine the headlines.  The infamous Neal Caffrey, previously thought to be deceased, abducts infant daughter, no, wait, I’m not listed as the father, so just _girl_ , and goes on the run.  I can list a grand total of about a dozen people who wouldn’t believe she was better off with her mother or in a foster home, a few of whom are on the wrong side of the law themselves, and my cover would be blown, besides.”  Peter moved away a few steps and just stood facing a little away, hands settling on his hips.  The CI’s gaze followed him worriedly.

“Peter?”

Anything the agent might have been about to say was cut off by Reddington’s entrance, the crimelord beaming at them.

“Good news.”  He announced.  “I’ve found your girl.”  He raised a brow as if expecting someone to congratulate him, completely ignoring the tense air.

“Where?”  Neal whirled, his attention fully on the other criminal now.

“Does she still have Caffrey’s daughter with her?”  Ressler asked dryly.  If the revelation was a surprise to Red, he didn’t let it show.  Liz, just returning with Agnes, though, looked faintly confused.

“My informant wasn’t sure,” Red ignored Neal’s question, answering Ressler instead, “but I can’t imagine she would be too far away.  Alexis and Naomi don’t strike me as the sort who would expend money for two different sets of guards.”

“Where are they?”  Neal repeated, tense as a bowstring.  Red eyed him a moment, before looking toward Peter.  Neal tensed the slightest, impossible, bit more.  Samar was a little concerned as to what he would do if his handler said no.  The agent was still standing with his hands on his hips, but he was watching his CI now as well, looking concerned.  Finally, he heaved out an irritated sigh.

“He’d find out anyway.”  Red just tilted his head slightly in acquiescence.

“An abandoned storefront in Anacostia,” he stated, and then gave them the address.  There was an instance of silence, and then everybody was moving.

“I’ll get ahold of the local department.”  Liz stated, setting Agnes down in the playpen and reaching for her desk phone.  Samar was already checking her weapon and backup, then turned her attention back toward Neal, while Ressler headed back toward his office, presumably to get his.  The CI was already moving toward the elevator, but Peter caught up and pulled him back before he had taken more than a few steps.  The pair argued a moment, and then the younger subsided sulkily, the agent reaching to, presumably, adjust something on the control wristband.  Samar had noticed he had buttoned his shirtsleeve over the accessory that morning, oddly, effectively hiding it from view, unless he drew attention to it.  It had been missing from the drawings in the sketchbook too, though she hadn’t noted it at the time.  Obviously the agent was trying to be considerate about the arrangement, though he was just as obviously not ashamed to point it up, either.

She didn’t take her eyes off the conman, though; she had a feeling he would take the first chance to go his own way.

It only took moments before they were leaving the building, heading to separate cars.  Liz stayed behind, of course.  Reddington had as well, stating he didn’t want to accidentally tip his hand to anyone who might have been watching.  Samar had mentioned leaving Neal behind as well, once they were on the main floor, but Peter had just shaken his head.

“He’d only go behind my back and get himself into trouble.”  He had explained, the CI having hurried ahead towards the building’s exit and the cars beyond.  “And I’d prefer to use the Red Box only when I really have to.  He’s better off where I can keep an eye on him.”  The controller beeped a warning, then, and the conman slowed reluctantly, presumably in response to a warning from his anklet, pausing to cast an irritated glance back at them.  Samar gave Burke a curious look.

“I shortened his range temporarily.  It might not keep him close, but at least I’ll know when he takes off.”

“I’m glad I’m not on your leash.  I think I would have shot you.”  It was stated matter-of-factly, but she did give him a slight smirk to soften it.  She liked him, and she understood his reasoning, she just wasn’t the type to willingly give up that much power.

“Well, no offense, but I wouldn’t have taken you on as a CI.  I never had plans to take a convict at all.  Neal’s just special.”

“So I see.”  She moved away then, following Ressler to his car.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, and the next one should come up sooner, since a good portion of it is already written/planned. And boy is this getting out of hand, It started out as Peter coming in and helping the group catch Neal and bring down a pair of thugs, and now there's a murderer and a baby, and an abusive ex, and who knows what else'll pop up. In good news, I've almost figured out what it is they want Neal to steal, or, at least, the format of it...
> 
> I didn't actually plan to have Kramer show up in the story at all, and I'm not sure if he will again or not. I don't really dislike him, outside of his one little stunt, and I think it's a bit unfair to the character that he just disappears once his plot is done (The same way that Cruz was never spoken of again, too, after season 1). I know he was supposed to be the 'big bad', but honestly, he wasn't really evil, he was mostly just misguided, and maybe a bit greedy. So, in my headcanon, Peter and Kramer came to an understanding at some point afterwards and patched things up. 
> 
> I'm adding a warning to the tags for domestic violence. It's been mentioned before, I know, but it's actually discussed here and will be in future, as well. While I don't have experience with physical abuse myself, I have been the victim of emotional and verbal abuse from a parent, as have my siblings, and my mother is currently stuck in a relationship with the same abuser, so this is something I feel deeply about, no matter who the victim is. Female-to-male domestic violence is just as common as the other way around, but it is far less likely to be reported, for the exact reasons Neal gives in this chapter. Our culture has promoted the idea that women are the victims and men are the aggressors, and when it is reversed, the man is weak or 'less', which makes it humiliating for a man to place a claim, and he is far less likely to be believed.

“You don’t like him.”  Samar’s voice was faintly amused, and there was no need for her to clarify who she was talking about.  Ressler simply scoffed in return.

“He’s worse than Reddington.  And it’s obvious that Burke has no control over him at all.  Pickpocketing federal agents and conning his way into blacksites.  I can just imagine the trouble he could really cause, if he decided to.”

“He is rather… playful…”

“Playful.”  The blond repeated dryly, pausing a moment then to glare at a car who almost rear-ended them.  He didn’t pay enough attention to notice who it was, but Samar, in her mirror, caught just a glimpse of someone in the passenger seat who she was sure was Caffrey.

“I read Burke’s service summary when I was checking them out.  He’s an excellent agent, nearly twenty years with an almost perfect record.  Except for four years, two years back, when everything turned into a wreck.”

“Caffrey.”  She couldn’t disagree with him, really.  Problems happened when you involved criminals on their side.  Although, privately, Samar often felt the FBI was a little too strict on their rules and regulations.  If the job got done and the bad guys got caught, what was the harm in bending a few rules to see it through?  The conman wasn’t malicious, he seemed downright soft, from what she had seen.  Granted, if she were Burke, she would encourage that trait.

“He’s like a child.  He’s got no sense of responsibility or consequence.  At least Reddington has some idea of where his schemes are going.  Caffrey just pulls his stunts for the hell of it and then expects that a pretty smile and a quick tongue are going to get him out of whatever he lands himself in.  Or that Burke will come along and clean up after him.”

“Well,” Samar pointed out, “he obviously hasn’t been wrong, so far.”  Ressler spared her a dirty look and she just shrugged, personally thinking that Ressler’s opinion was tainted a bit by the injury to his pride that the thief’s antics had caused.  It wasn’t hard to figure out he didn’t like people showing him up. 

Samar’s phone rang then and she answered it quickly, speaking for a few minutes before hanging up.

“Aram ran the records on the property.  It was reclaimed two months ago for back taxes and is due to go up for auction any day.”

“So anybody in there is trespassing anyway.  That makes things simpler.”

“Arrest everyone and sort them out later.”  Samar agreed.  Ressler paused to glare in the rearview mirror then.

“Who the hell taught him how to drive, anyway?”

 

******

 

Anxious as he was to find Petra and Annemarie, well, Petra, at least, Neal found himself pausing uncertainly at the passenger door of the car.  He was on the verge of changing his mind, telling Peter he would stay behind, just to avoid the conversation that he knew was going to happen.  The other man _liked_ having him cornered when he ambushed him with these, whether it was the car, Neal’s old apartment, Peter’s office, or somewhere else where he couldn’t turn tail and run, figuratively speaking.  (Not that he could run far anyway, at the moment, not without setting off the damned anklet, and, probably, ending up in the glass box.)  But the car was a particular favourite, since he _really_ couldn’t go anywhere, and was far less inclined to argue with his already distracted driver.

“Neal?”  Peter’s tone was calm, but there was a tinge of warning in the brown eyes when Neal lifted his gaze to meet them over the car’s roof.  They _would_ be having the conversation, here and now, or later in some other boxed-in space.  And Neal, whatever else he might be, was no coward.  Unless, of course, there were guns involved, and that wasn’t being a coward, that was just being smart.

Taking a deep breath, he offered Peter a fake smile, and opened the door, sliding in gracefully.

The car was actually silent for the first five minutes or so, and Neal was almost about to relax, thinking he had misread the situation, when the agent spoke.

“Why didn’t you come to me?”  Neal rolled his eyes inwardly, but kept the response from showing.

“Really, Peter?”  He answered, instead.  “I know you would believe me, but who else would?  And it’s not exactly something a man wants to admit, is it, that his _girlfriend_ is abusing him?”  Neal huffed out a breath.  “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big deal.”  Peter gave him a hard glare, and Neal’s heart leapt into his throat as the car’s proximity sensors jerked it to a stop.  Oh, he had forgotten just how bad Peter’s driving got when he was in a mood.

“It was mostly just insults.  I heard worse in the FBI building.”

“Better not have been on our floor.”  The agent growled, then neatly sidestepped the distraction back to the main topic.  “That scar on your arm?”  Neal looked away, absently reaching to rub his sleeve over the five inch long gash that ran along the outer side of his right forearm.  He had figured Peter would have noticed it while undressing him the other night, but when the agent hadn’t brought it up, he had hoped he would have just forgotten it, or figured it wasn’t important.

“Kitchen knife.”  He admitted quietly, after a moment.  “It wasn’t deep, I didn’t need stitches at all.”

Peter swore.  Neal winced inwardly, that was never a good sign.

“I should haul you back to New York and lock you in the basement for the next decade,” the older man growled.  “Maybe by then you’d have grown up enough to have a little common sense, much as I doubt it.”  Neal glared out the window angrily.  Okay, so he had gotten himself into a bad situation, but it really could have been worse, and he had been managing fine until the twins had shown up.

“That was a one off, really.”  He protested.  “Like I said, usually it was just insults and throwing things.”  And they had hurt, yes, especially when they struck far too close to home, but words were his weapon, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be defeated by them.

“And how many injuries that didn’t leave scars?”  Neal pressed his lips together, staying silent, and Peter shook his head.

“Dammit, Neal.”  Fury laced the next few sentences, as he slipped into lecture mode.  “ _This_ is why I keep you on a tracker.  _This_ is why you need a handler.  You just _can’t_ manage to stay out of trouble, especially if there’s a woman involved.  And you were going to _propose_ to her.”

“I was taking the ring to pawn it.  I figured with you coming after me again, I wasn’t going to be using it anyway.”

“Which still means that at some point you bought a ring for a woman who was abusing you.  I should drop you off in the Violent Crimes office, let you _consult_ on a few of their domestics, so you can see exactly where that ends up.”

“So you would have preferred I just took off and left my child behind because it was uncomfortable for me?  Like my father?”  Neal regretted the words as soon as they were out, and Peter turned his head to stare at him.  The proximity sensor went off again.

“I don’t think Agent Ressler is going to be happy if you crash into his car.”  Neal complained half-heartedly.  Peter didn’t answer, just returning his gaze to the road.

“You’re not your father.”  The agent stated firmly, after a moment.

“I know.”

“You’re a better man than he is, by a long shot, even if you sometimes choose the stupidest possible option.”

“Thank you.  I think.”

“You’re no longer allowed to become involved with any woman I haven’t met and approved of.”

“Really, Peter?”

 

******

 

After getting separated from Ressler by a few red lights, (something Neal was privately happy about; Peter’s driving improved when he wasn’t scolding, but the more space between them and the other agents the better) and getting temporarily lost by taking a wrong turn, the NY pair managed to find the right place.  Ressler and Navabi were already speaking to the cop who was apparently in charge, but it was the man standing a slight distance away from them who Neal immediately noticed.

“I want you at my side at all times here.”  Peter ordered, reaching for his seatbelt.  “No sneaking off.”

“I’d rather stay here.”  The agent gave him an odd look, and then followed his gaze, frowning a moment before obviously coming to a decision.

“Cowboy up.  You’re going to have to face him again eventually.”

“Peter,” the CI protested.  “Please…”

“Get out of the car, Neal.  I’m not giving you any opportunity to sneak off.  If you break your radius, I am locking you up again until I decide I need you for something.”  Neal opened his mouth to protest, but subsided sulkily at the agent’s hard look.  Apparently the box was now Peter’s new ‘prison’ threat.  Great.

Actually it was worse, Neal reflected, as he followed the agent unhappily.  Peter couldn’t have actually thrown him back into prison without a real reason, and it wouldn’t have been something he could have done, or had reversed, without tons of paperwork.  Combine that with the danger of tossing a CI back in without protection, and it had been a mostly false threat, more often than not.  The worst the handler had actually been able to resort to was keeping him secluded in Peter’s office or in the conference room during work hours, or house arrest, off-time, and while that was annoying, at least there were still people around, and something to do.  The box, it seemed, was free of unwanted commitments and could be used at any time.  It was basically Peter’s private Solitary cell, and he _knew_ how much Neal hated that.

Which, of course, made it the perfect deterrent.

“Petey.”  Kramer greeted when they reached where he stood, leaning against his car.  “I heard you were in town.”

“Hey, Phil.”  Peter greeted, with a nod.  “I was asked to come assist on a case.”

Kramer’s eyes flicked to the other new arrival, eyeing Neal thoughtfully.  “Rumour had it that you were dead.”  He commented.

“Well, you know how rumours can get exaggerated.”  Neal answered, voice cold, not bothering with a smile at all, for once obeying Peter’s rule to stay close.  He saw Samar look over curiously at his tone, saw her eyes narrow thoughtfully, but then she returned to watching Ressler argue with the cop.

“I’m glad to see that that particular one was false, then.”  The older agent offered with a smile.  “Everyone thought it was a great loss.”  Neal only looked away, toward the building they were _supposed_ to be entering.

“What brings you out here?”  Peter asked curiously, ignoring the obvious tension in his consultant’s frame, for the moment.  Neal had placed himself just behind Peter’s left shoulder, the opposite side to where Kramer stood, basically putting his handler between him and the other man like some sort of shield.  Peter wasn’t quite sure what the conman thought the now Section Chief was going to do, honestly.  Even if Kramer hadn’t long since accepted the fact that Peter wasn’t going to surrender his CI and Neal wasn’t going to meekly allow himself to be taken, he was unlikely to cause a scene and haul him off here, when he was obviously already in another agent’s custody.

“Consulting.  Apparently there are rumours that someone’s using the building to make forgeries.  The DCPD asked Art Crimes for someone to verify, so I volunteered, to get out of the office for a bit.  They were about to go in when those two showed up and complicated matters.  Something about a hostage?”

“Two, possibly.  A woman and her baby.  Neal’s baby.”  Kramer gave Neal a curious look, and the forger just shot his handler an irritated glance.  Ressler interrupted any more conversation then, striding up.

“All right, we’ve got control.  Apparently there’s a back and side entrance too, so I’ll take the front with a team and Samar will go around the back.”  He gave Kramer a nod.  “Are you joining us?”

“I’ll watch, I think.  I’m getting a bit old for that sort of thing.  Besides, someone should keep an eye on our boy, here, so he doesn’t get into trouble.”  He smiled genially at Neal.  It was ignored again, the CI giving Peter a worried look instead.  The NY agent glanced toward the building, frowning.

“Are you going to need me?”  He asked Ressler.

“Constable Jacobs there seems to be a bit trigger-happy.”  The blond answered quietly.  “I don’t really trust him not to screw this up.”  Peter sighed, then reached to take the bracelet off.

“Peter, don’t.”  The worry was taking on a faint tinge of panic, now.  Ressler frowned at the con-artist curiously, but Peter didn’t seem concerned.

“Calm down, Neal.  You’ll be fine.” 

“Is that a new model?”  Kramer asked, taking the bracelet and eyeing it curiously.

“It’s private sector.  It’s more complex programming and the anklet isn’t nearly as obvious, so it’s safer.”  Kramer glanced down at Neal’s ankle at the explanation, but the tracker was hidden by the hem of the jeans.  The con was glaring at his handler now, the blue gaze equal parts fury and betrayal.  Peter only pulled his gun out, checking it before looking up again.

“Behave.  And remember what I said.  _Don’t_ break the radius.”  With that final warning delivered, he turned to follow Ressler, Neal taking a few steps after them before seeming to admit defeat.

“What was that about?”  The blond agent asked quietly, when they were back over with the main group, handing Peter his earpiece.

“Bad blood, I guess you could say.  Phil likes what Neal can do for the Bureau, but he thinks he needs a firmer hand than I can provide.  He tried to steal him when they were considering a commutation two years into his sentence.  It didn’t end well.  He’s since admitted that it wasn’t his best idea.”

“You were actually fighting over _him_?”  Ressler gave the NY agent an incredulous look.  Peter pressed his lips together in irritation.

“Neal _is_ a genius.  If he actually applied himself to something more than tricks and forgeries, and wasn’t so gun-shy, he could probably give your Reddington a run for his money, if not outdo him altogether.”

_“He’s not that hard to handle.”_   Samar said over her comm, already slipping behind the building with the three swat officers who were going with her.  Peter chuckled.

“That’s because you’re a woman, and Neal, for all his faults, is a gentleman.  If you were a man, or if he decided he didn’t like you, he’d take your threats very differently, trust me.  It wouldn’t get physical, but he can be extremely irritating when he’s in a mood to be, and taking wallets and sneaking into places he shouldn’t be is the most innocent of his pranks.  A couple of guys in Organized Crime even switched offices, after they made the mistake of spreading some rumours about him and me.”  Peter looked faintly amused as he remembered that, separating from Ressler to head around the side with his trio.  Ressler had the largest group, six of them.  Samar and Peter were to catch any stragglers.

_“Is he actually going to stay there?”_  Samar queried.

“No.  He’ll figure out some way to get around the rules I set, I’m sure,” Peter admitted with a final glance back at his consultant, who was standing as far from Kramer as the invisible leash would allow.  “Either that or outright break them, though he already knows where he’s going to end up if he does that.”

_“He’d better not get in the way.”_   Ressler snapped.

“Hopefully, we’ll have the building cleared before he comes in.  But keep an eye out, just in case.”

_“On my mark,”_ the blond stated, apparently ignoring the statement.  _“Ready, and…  Go.”_

 

******

 

“So, you’re a father now.  Congratulations.  Girl or boy?”  Phil asked, watching the teams move around the building.  It was a fairly large one, three stories high.

Neal didn’t answer the question, standing at the edge of the radius, hands in his pockets.  If he glared any harder, the agent reflected, the building might spontaneously catch fire.

“Neal.”  Phil prompted, and the criminal turned that furious blue gaze on his current jailer.  Phil kept his expression genial.  He had once thought that his former protégé took too soft a viewpoint of the young conman, and he did still think that Neal would benefit from a firmer hand and more solid rules, but Phil had realised, after his attempts to provide that guidance, that Neal was more like a small bird, or maybe a pet mouse or rat was a more apt description.  Take too loose a hold and he would wriggle free and escape, doing whatever he wished.  Hold him too hard, enchain him too much, and you would hurt him, or he would chew his way free, and possibly injure you while he was doing it.

“It’s a girl.”  The younger man finally admitted, grudgingly.  Phil lifted a hand to beckon him closer, and, after a long moment, Neal obeyed the summons, although again with obvious reluctance, and staying just out of arm’s reach.

“Is it that redhead from the insurance company?  She did seem very fond of you.”

“No.”  The answer came a little easier this time, and Phil wondered if Neal was warming up or just felt it wasn’t worth the fight.  “She moved to London.”  Phil nodded, and then decided now was as good a time as any.

“I suppose I should apologize for that…” he hesitated, considering his words, “that misunderstanding we had.”  Neal gave a huff that was just a hair off of being a snort of derision.

“You mean that ‘misunderstanding’ where you tried to overrule my commutation and steal me out from under Peter’s nose?  The one where I was forced to run, and then ended up getting shot by the FBI’s Enforcer?”

“You weren’t _forced_ to do anything.”  Phil replied, trying to keep his tone mild.  “Much as you seem to like playing the victim where the Bureau is concerned, I am not an evil man.  I had both of your best interests in mind.  And, yes, I’ll admit your cleverness didn’t hurt.  I just didn’t realise how co-dependant you two are.  I still think it would have been good to split you up, but I was probably about a year too late for that.”  Phil’s phone rang then, and he turned away to answer it, not noticing the few silent steps Neal took, the thief’s fingers slipping easily into the pocket the bracelet had been dropped into, transferring it to the same pocket in his own jacket that had held Samar’s knife only a few days before.  By the time the agent turned back, the con was right back where he had been, with the same irritated expression.

Peter, Neal reflected, would have checked his pockets immediately after an opening like that.  Kramer was twice as suspicious, admittedly, but he didn’t know what to be suspicious about.

“So, you’re not actually apologizing for what you tried to do, you’re just sorry it didn’t work.”  Neal clarified, his dislike for the other man not eased in the slightest.

“I’m sorry you got hurt.”  Neal just turned his attention back toward the building.  He didn’t like the idea that that many people with guns, only one of them being Peter, who was one of the few he would admit to trusting with the weapon, were entering a building that might have his baby girl in it, along with who knew how many other people, possibly with guns of their own.  It didn’t help his mood that Peter had just handed over the control bracelet, without more than a moment’s hesitation, to a man he knew Neal hated, like he was a dog who couldn’t be trusted to stay alone.

“Come on, maybe we can listen in on the radio.”  Kramer offered, turning towards the van where it was set up.  Neal took his chance then, darting across the street and into an alley before the agent knew he was missing.  The end of the alley was blocked by a security fence, but it didn’t take him more than a few minutes to get over it and into the yard behind.  Which was fortunate, since not a moment after his feet hit the ground, Kramer’s angry call came down the alleyway.

“Caffrey, get your ass out here.”  Neal was already moving again, though, around the building and down another alley until he found the side exit, a single officer guarding it.

It was serendipity that got him past there, something, a cat or rat, possibly, clattering in the garbage closer to the street.  The guard went to investigate, and Neal slipped in through the door.

The teams would have regrouped and split up once inside the building, Neal knew, a few to guard the exits, two groups to check the second and third floors, and the third to check the basement the building most likely had.  Neal hesitated, but then chose to go that way first; if anyone was being held here, the basement would be the easiest place to keep them.  He found the stairs and headed down, finding a hallway at the bottom that he quietly moved along.

Somebody suddenly grabbed his arm from behind, and Neal reacted automatically.  He had taken a few defense lessons in the past couple years, figuring they might come in handy, and used them now, twisting to throw his attacker.  Before he could register that there was more than one person, though, he was spun up against the wall, a very deadly-looking gun right in his face.

Neal’s whole world focused on the barrel of the weapon, his breath freezing in his lungs as time and space and his surroundings ceased to exist.  There was just him and the metal.  Someone was speaking, yelling, but he could barely hear, couldn’t understand the words, completely and utterly sure that today, right here and now, he was going to die.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for panic attack, because I'm an evil person, and let's face it, he can't be as stable as he pretends. I've never had one though, so I hope I didn't screw it up...
> 
> Feel free to hate Annemarie. She's really not a nice person. She didn't start out quite this bad, but she was never very good.
> 
> A bit of backstory, because it's actually an important point, and I should probably have mentioned it earlier. Actually, maybe I should go back and clean up the descriptions and stuff. Put it on the to-do list... At one point in the series, Liz murders a corrupt government official and is convicted for it. This results in her not being legally able to be an agent, so officially she's a consultant, because Red refuses to accept any other handler.
> 
> And I'm going on a comment-reply spree. Because I'm a horrible person and should have done it before this. Do be aware that I have actually been reading them.
> 
> Oh, here's an idea, too, that I actually had randomly occur yesterday (because that is how it happens in my brain) about a White Collar spin-off, set post-series, of course. I haven't really done anything, but I wrote up a starting summary. 
> 
> 'Petty thief and escape artist Erica Castell has the worst luck, honestly. Brilliant, but a bit too smart-mouthed and somewhat socially awkward, she got caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, and has been accused and convicted of crimes she didn’t commit. Her choices are simple, spend two four-year terms in a jail cell, or accept an ankle monitor and assist the FBI in solving cases (while trying to clear her own name) under the watch of Special Agent Nathan Jackson, a no-nonsense black man with a dislike for criminals in general, and, seemingly, her in particular. To make matters more complicated, someone is out to deal with her permanently, and she keeps catching glimpses of a blue-eyed man who looks a lot like a convict who's supposed to be dead.'
> 
> What do you think? Interesting, maybe?

Liz was bored.  The hardest part of not officially being an agent anymore was the fact that she was, more often than not, stuck with the paperwork.

And there was always a lot of that.

Sighing, she stood, checking that Agnes was still sleeping in the playpen before she went to get herself another cup of coffee.

It took a little longer than she had planned, since she had to make fresh coffee, and when she came back, it was to find Red playing with her little girl.  She paused a moment to watch them.  She never felt the same anxiety when Red held Agnes as she did when someone else, like Neal, or even Samar or Aram, did.  She knew, logically, that none of those people would hurt the baby, or try to take her away, and it was, ironically, Red who was, arguably, the most dangerous person in the group, but there it was.  But maybe that was it, though.  Red, she was sure, would give his life, and everything he owned, to keep them safe.  She still had the papers for the trust fund he had arranged for Agnes locked in her desk, after she had found them sitting on top of it.  Her supposed father had told Liz that he had willed everything to her on his death.  She wondered, not for the first time, and certainly not out of any longing, who all of Red’s assets were willed to.

“Ah, Lizzie.  There you are.  Little Agnes here was wondering where her mother wandered off to, but she decided I would do for the moment.”  Red beamed at his partner, not paying any attention to the fact that the child had his hat in her hands and was happily chewing at the brim of it.

“She’s going to ruin your hat, you know.”  Liz commented with a smile.

“Hats are replaceable.  Did I ever tell you about the time I was in Nova Scotia, about when Hurricane… Karen, I believe it was called,” he glanced to Dembe for verification and the other man nodded his agreement, “yes, Karen was blowing through.  I must have lost a dozen hats.  I actually found one, afterwards, by accident, or, rather, a little boy found it.  I let him keep it, of course, he really did seem to enjoy it, and by his clothing, he didn’t have any extra funds for nice things.  His parents came into a bit of money after that, though, won some sort of lottery.”

“The Reddington Fund, maybe?”  Liz teased.  Dembe grinned knowingly at her.

“I have no idea what you talking about, Lizzie.”  Reddington answered blithely, returning his attention to Agnes.  Liz moved back over to her desk, frowning at the remaining papers, and wondering how the raid was going.  She hated not knowing, and having to wait to find things out.

Burke’s words from the day before came back to her, then, and she smirked to herself, half-resigned, now, to the fact that she honestly had no chance at all of really getting the upper hand in their pairing, unless Reddington allowed it.  The other agent had been right, after all, it was all about who wanted what more, and she would never be able to manage the patience Reddington could.  The man had, after all, waited 20 years for the child he had rescued to grow up and become able to take care of herself and be useful to him, had sat through her tantrums and distrust, always sure that she was going to come running to him when she was in trouble.  Which she, of course, did.  God, look at it that way, and she was so obviously the ‘Caffrey’ of their pair, the law breaking and conning aside.  Well, okay, not counting the whole murdering the Attorney General thing, she still thought that was completely justified. 

She even had similar credentials, really, thievery, the training to understand and manipulate people, and an unfortunate ability to get into trouble, even if hers was usually not her doing.  Not the artistic talent, she supposed, although that would have been nice.

Maybe she was who Caffrey would have been if Burke had raised him.  That was a bit nicer as a thought.

“Have you heard from Tom lately?”  Red asked, his tone carefully composed.  Maybe, Liz thought, her self-appointed protector had finally decided to accept her husband as a necessary evil, if nothing better.

“He phoned last night, actually.  Apparently he’s doing something in Venezuela.  Couldn’t tell me much about it.”

“Local druglord, gunrunner, human trafficker.”  Red commented offhand.  “I know him, the world’s better off without him, trust me.”  Liz was about to respond, but her phone rang, interrupting her.

“Ressler,” she greeted, recognizing the number, “did you find them?”  The agent’s expression went blank as she listened to what the other had to say.

“She did what?”  She said, after a moment.  “Oh, God, he’s going to be devastated.”  Reddington gave her a sharp look at the statement, moving to set Agnes back in the playpen.

“Of course.”  Liz continued, opening her top drawer to search for the papers she hoped she still had in there.  “I’ll start the search right away.  Someone has to know where she ended up.”  They exchanged a few more words, and Liz hung up, turning her full attention to the papers in the drawer.

“Elizabeth?”  Red queried.  “What happened.”

“Neal’s girlfriend happened.”  Liz answered, finding the pamphlet she had been looking for, the one with the number for child services.  “She just told Ressler she left the baby on a church doorstep.”

 

******

 

 _“Second floor’s clear.”_ Samar’s voice came clearly over the Peter’s mike as he led the way into the last room in the basement, finding it empty.  His team had already captured two men, most likely homeless, by the looks of them, but better safe than sorry.  _“A trio of guards here, obvious amateurs.  And I found those forgeries.  There’s a whole workshop up here.”_

 _“It’s all small apartments on the third floor.”_   Ressler commented.  _“Taking us a while to work through them.  We found two guards so far, though.  One’s dead.”_

 _“Your boy got loose, Peter.”_   Peter withheld a sigh as Phil’s voice broke in over the FBI signal.  _“He grabbed that bracelet and disappeared.”_   There was a tone of apology mixed in with the anger in the older agent’s voice.

“It’s fine.”  Peter answered back.  “I expected that.  Everyone else hear?  Caffrey may be in the building.”

 _“I’m going to lock the little bastard in the red box myself.”_   Ressler answered irritably.  Peter considered protesting the epithet, but let it slide, not feeling terribly charitable towards his CI himself at the moment.

 _“Unknown suspect spotted moving toward the basement.”_   Another voice broke in over the walkie-talkie.  _“Dark haired and dressed in black jeans, leather jacket, and blue shirt.  Moving to intercept.”_   Peter swore as he reached for the device.

“Stand down.  Target is unarmed civilian.  I repeat, stand down, and for God’s sake, don’t point a gun at him.”  He was already moving back towards the stairs.

His warning came too late, as he came on the scene.  One young Asian officer had her weapon pointed at the trespasser, her Caucasian partner just getting up off the floor, wincing as he stood.  Neal stood pressed against the wall, arms spread slightly and palms against the surface at his waist height.  The consultant’s eyes were fixed on the weapon, his face paper-white and his pupils blown wide in terror.

“Dammit, I said ‘Stand down’.”  Peter snarled at the female cop, who obediently stepped back, looking uncertain.

“He attacked Ibbitson.”  The woman protested.  Peter holstered his own gun, casting a glance at the other officer.

“You all right?”  He asked, and the man nodded, straightening his uniform.

“I’m fine.  It was just a basic defense throw.  I wasn’t expecting it.”  That settled, the agent turned his attention to his CI.

“Neal.”  He said, stepping close.  The younger man’s gaze didn’t move and it didn’t look like he was even breathing.

“Come on, Buddy, snap out of it.”  Peter tried giving him a light slap, but, when that didn’t work, resorted to pressure points, reaching under the jacket to jab his knuckles into the other’s ribs.  Neal jerked away at the pain, mouth opening in a gasp and eyes focusing, finally, on his handler.  The younger man’s hands came up, fairly clinging to the sleeves of Peter’s FBI jacket.

“That’s better.”  The agent sighed in relief.  He could still feel the smaller man shivering, but, after a moment, Neal pushed away, straightening, his gaze darkening as he remembered that he was angry with his handler.

“I’ve got him.”  Peter said over the earpiece.  “He’s fine.  Basement’s clear.”  He flicked the mike off and gestured for the two officers to head up ahead of him.  His own team were coming up from behind, having paused to retrieve their two captives.  Peter waved them on as well.

“What the hell were you thinking?”  He snapped at the conman when they were alone again.  “You nearly got yourself shot.”

“I noticed.”  Neal took a breath and visibly tried to stop his shuddering, though it just as visibly wasn’t working.  Peter held back a sigh, just watching worriedly.  The criminal had never completely frozen up like that at having a gun pointed at him before that Peter knew of, but, then, he hadn’t really seen him around guns since Keller had ‘killed’ him, either, after all.  For all the Fed knew, this could be par for the course now, although Peter’s own gun certainly hadn’t seemed to bother him.  That didn’t really mean much though, honestly.  He’d never tested it, but Peter figured he could probably point the thing right at his partner and just get an amused smile in return.

Neal’s breath suddenly caught again and the shaking became more pronounced.  Peter had no idea what had set it off this time, but he simply reached to pull his windbreaker off, as Neal closed his eyes, obviously trying to regain control.

“Calm down.  I’ve got you.”  Peter said, draping his jacket over his partner’s shoulders, wrapping it around the thin frame.  The jacket wasn’t heavy, and Peter knew full well that it wasn’t cold causing the shaking either, but as he expected, the symptom did start to ease as Neal pulled it close, the thief shifting his weight forward suddenly.  The older man was half expecting it, catching him easily, enfolding him in a loose hug, one arm wrapping around the CI’s waist, the other hand settling at the back of his neck.  Neal’s panic attacks had tapered off quickly in the months after Kate’s death, and the time in prison, with the constant supervision, had actually seemed to help, but they had still occurred, now and then, through the following years, though not nearly as serious as this one, and Peter had learned how to deal with them.  Break the attack (if Neal didn’t manage it on his own, which was more usual), soothe, distract, and then ‘forget’.  Neal was starting to stiffen in his arms now, starting to remember that he was supposed to be stronger than this.  Time to distract, and Samar had already found a useful enough way.

“Come on.”  Peter stepped back, letting his arms fall, his right one settling at his CI’s back as he urged him toward the stairs.  The conman baulked a moment, but then yielded to the light push.  By the time they reached the top of the stairs, he looked like his normal self again, if still a bit subdued.  He obviously wasn’t planning on taking the jacket off, though, having pulled it on properly now, his arms in the sleeves.  Peter decided not to mention it.

 _“Found the woman.”_ Ressler reported, at just that moment.  _“You might want to keep Caffrey away, though, Burke.  I don’t think it would be a warm fuzzy reunion.”_   Peter flicked the mike back on long enough to acknowledge the statement, considered a moment, then tugged the conman around, pushing him face-first up against the room’s nearest wall.  Neal’s hands came up automatically, pressing against the cool drywall.

“Don’t move.”

“Peter.”  Neal protested.  “This is embarrassing.”

“Maybe next time you’ll think before getting yourself into the middle of a takedown.”  He wanted to scold him further on that line, but that wouldn’t help anything, at the moment.  Instead, he stepped close to reach under the windbreaker, finding the hidden pocket in Neal’s coat and pulling the bracelet out in what would have been a nice lift, if he had bothered trying to hide it.  “And don’t think you’re getting away with this stunt.”

“I could have just run.”  The captive pointed out.

“No.”  Came the rejoinder, no trace of hesitation.  “You wouldn’t.”  Neal decided to let the subject go.

The worst part of it, the CI decided after a moment, was that Peter wasn’t even really holding him there.  The agent’s hand was just resting lightly on his shoulder, a reminder of his presence, not pressing down at all.  He probably wasn’t even really paying attention to him.  Neal could have broken away at any moment.  It turned it into a punishment akin to making a child stand in the corner.  So, then, why _didn’t_ he ignore the command?  The worst Peter could do would be to cuff him and put him in the car.

And then lock him in that box again.  Granted, he would probably end up there anyway, unless Peter decided he was still too unstable from the… _incident_.  He hated the anxiety attacks, hated the way they made him feel out of control afterwards.  He _wanted_ to hate the way they invariably made him long for his handler’s presence, and, usually, seek him out, even if it was just something as seemingly innocent as showing up to annoy him at home, or planting himself in the other chair in his office.  Or Peter’s own chair, if he was in a meeting where Neal wasn’t allowed or something.  The scent that clung to it, the mix of gun oil and cheap aftershave and the man himself, (the same scent on Peter’s windbreaker now,) wasn’t quite as good as his actual presence, but it usually helped.  (He’d tried to recreate that scent, once, just out of curiosity, of course, but it was the one thing he apparently couldn’t forge.)

He had never quite managed the distaste for that particular urge, though, probably since he had already started to enjoy having the other man close before that.  It wasn’t that he _had_ to have Peter around, he wasn’t that clingy.  Given time and quiet and a suitable distraction, Neal could straighten himself out just fine, if he had to.  But at some point in that first year, ‘Peter’ had come to mean ‘Safety’, which, of course, made it easier to calm down.  It was just fortunate that Neal had accidentally laid the groundwork for his habits early enough in the relationship that almost no one questioned them later, when they actually meant something.

And so he stood where he had been put, relaxing under the agent’s hand, leaning his forehead against the wall, because, humiliating as the position was, it was also somewhat calming, and he didn’t want to end up sitting alone in a car that wasn’t actually Peter’s.  He certainly didn’t want to spend another night in that cell with nothing to do but worry and think.

He could hear the footsteps of the men behind him on the wood veneer floor, moving between the back room where they stood and the larger front room, maybe half a dozen, he guessed.  More footsteps came down the stairs from the floors above, though even if he had turned he wouldn’t have been able to see who from here.  One set, too light and sharp to be police issue boots, came towards them.

“Stay.”  Peter ordered, stepping away, and Neal thought about a comment that he honestly _wasn’t_ Peter’s new dog, but one glance over his shoulder stopped him.  Ressler was eyeing him, and the blond actually looked faintly sympathetic.  That was worrying.  Neal had already pegged him as a ‘first-year-Hughes’ type; he barely tolerated Neal, certainly didn’t like him, and only wanted him around if he was going to be useful.  The only difference was that Ressler wasn’t able to rescind on his CI arrangement, which made all the pranks that he wouldn’t have dared pull on the SAC fair game with Ressler.  To an extent.

“Peter, what…”  The conman began, only to have his handler turn back, pointing sharply.

“I said ‘stay’.  If it’s something you need to know, I’ll tell you.”  And he moved away with the other agent, into the front room.  Neal considered sneaking over, but decided not to push his luck any further today, just sliding down to sit against the wall.

 

******

 

Ressler knew a lot of people considered him an asshole.  That was fine with him, really.  He wasn’t in the business to make friends, he was here to catch criminals, and he was, generally, reasonably good at it.  (Reddington notwithstanding.)  The friends he did make, Liz, Samar, Aram, were usually accidental and work related.

He had also honestly stated that he didn’t like Burke’s convict.  And he would, privately, admit that that probably had something to do with the thief showing him up.  He tended to take that sort of thing personally.  And the man’s entire attitude (which was oddly reminiscent of Red’s, actually) just simply pissed him off.

He preferred to believe that he wasn’t an overly cruel man, though.  Yes, if you tried to screw him over, or hurt one of the people he felt responsible for, or just outright deserved it, he would bury you with extreme prejudice, but he didn’t go out of his way to hurt people, in his usual life.  And Caffrey really hadn’t quite fit himself into any of those categories.

So when he entered the apartment that Caffrey’s girlfriend was obviously staying in, (the largest one,) after disarming and arresting the two guards that tried to stop them, (which made a total of four, for this floor) and found the woman, he fully expected to find a slightly-under-a-year-old baby with her.

And when she answered his query with a perfectly callous statement that she had left the child on a doorstep (not even handing it over to the pastor or even leaving it _inside_ the building) he could only stare at her in complete shock for a moment.

 _This_ was the woman Caffrey chose to associate with?

Shaking his head, Ressler sent the all-clear and the warning to Burke, then pulled out his phone, calling Liz.

“Get her out of my sight.”  He told the officer with him while he was waiting for her to pick up.  “Book her for child abandonment, trespassing, whatever else you think sounds good.”  The man nodded his agreement and roughly cuffed the woman, dragging her downstairs, not bothering to be overly kind about it.

“We found Annemarie,” he said in reply to Liz's question.  “Not the baby, though, she left her at a church somewhere.”  He listened to her response, and scowled in distaste.

“I think I’m going to pass it on to Burke.  Maybe he can ease it a bit, or at least, he’ll be better at dealing with the aftermath.  We might be here a while, I want you to get in touch with child services and see if you can track her down.”  He paused to glance at the clock on his phone, 4: 23.  At least it was a Thursday.  “It’s not very likely we can get custody of her before the weekend, but maybe you can at least find out if she’s in the system, and maybe where she’s being fostered.”  He waited for the expected response.  Of course she would be right on it.  Liz, after all, knew the pain of not knowing where your child was, she’d put her full effort into finding Petra.  She’d probably rope Reddington into it as well.  With his help, they actually might have the baby in her father’s arms before Monday, at that.

“Good luck.  Keep me updated.”  Ressler hung up, glanced around the grungy living room in disgust, and headed downstairs.

He had expected that Burke would have taken Caffrey out of the building, back to the van or his own car, but when he asked in the front room, which looked like it had been a gallery at one point, he was pointed towards the storerooms in the back.

The sight that met him was a bit confusing.  The CI was standing against the wall in what almost looked like a classic perp position, but he was wearing Burke’s jacket, and the agent’s hand seemed almost soothing in its placement, rather than an enforcement.  And Caffrey looked… small, somehow.

Maybe that was just the jacket, too loose for him, but obviously something had happened.  And his news wouldn’t make the situation any better; he couldn’t help the sympathetic look he gave the thief, when he turned to protest his handler’s order.  But he pushed the expression away as he followed Burke to the front room.

“What’s wrong with him?”  He asked.  Peter considered a long moment before sighing.

“One of the LEOs pulled a gun on him and it threw him into a panic attack.  They happen now and then, but this one was the worst I’ve seen since… since they first started.  He should be fine as long as I don’t leave him alone too long.”  Ressler ran a hand through his hair and swore.  Part of him was surprised, Caffrey didn’t seem like the type to suffer panic attacks.  But then, most people would have said straight-laced, by-the-book Donald Ressler (including, up until 2 years ago, straight-laced, by-the-book Donald Ressler) wasn’t the type to develop an addiction to pain medication, but it had happened.

“This isn’t going to make it any better, then.  The woman, Annemarie, just admitted to abandoning the baby at a church.”  Peter just shook his head at the news.

“That really doesn’t surprise me, actually.  She sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Five minutes with her and I’m almost rethinking my policy on police brutality.”  Ressler answered.  “I’ve already got Keen looking for leads, which means Reddington will probably be out digging too, soon, if he isn’t already.  We’ll find her, but I thought maybe you’d know how to tell him best.”  He glanced back at the room, frowning lightly, considering the new complication.

“Is he safe in the field?  If I’m right, the people he’s going to be dealing with are far more dangerous than your white collars.  If he panics at the wrong moment, it could cost him.”  The other agent shrugged.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, of course, but they were never an issue before.  Generally, unless I was actually paying attention, I only noticed afterwards; he gets… chummy, I guess you could call it, not really clingy, just prefers being close to me.  More so than usual.”

Ressler nodded, but resolved to keep a careful eye on the thief as well.

“Are you taking him back to your hotel?”  He asked, instead.  “I imagine the box is out of the question, if he’s already that worked up.”

“Probably, later.  For the moment, I’m going to take him upstairs.  He can help with verifying whatever’s up there.  It’ll distract him.”  Ressler nodded and started towards the front entrance to get everybody coordinated, while Peter turned back towards the storeroom.

Neal was where he had left him, mostly, sitting against the wall, head back and eyes closed, right leg stretched out and his left bent at the knee, foot pulled up close.  Peter couldn’t be sure, but he had a sneaking suspicion the other man was probably fiddling, or at least hanging on to, the anklet.  Then he took in the picture as a whole and huffed.

“The only thing missing is a wine bottle.”  He commented.  Neal smirked, but it disappeared just as fast.

“Annemarie’s not that sentimental.”

“Apparently not.”  Kate, for all her faults, wouldn’t have abandoned Neal’s baby.  “Come on, there’s work for you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey, look, an update. And look, something happens in the update. Double wow...
> 
> So, this was a really hard chapter to write. First, I jumped right to the scene with Kramer, only it was getting long and bothersome, and I had to chop it in half and rewrite, and then Neal and Peter got in there and started playing 'I know, and I know you know, but nobody's actually going to admit it' over Kramer's head, which was funny, but really wasn't the right mood considering the scenes that came before, and the one that was already written to happen later, so I had to cut it out and rewrite again, and then I realised I was pulling an Agnes on Petra, (Blacklist fans will understand that; for others, the show has this really bad habit of completely forgetting about the baby when she's not necessary for that particular storyline. I assume they must have a babysitter, but s/he has never been seen or spoken of) so I wrote the actual first scene and gave Neal a reason to 'appear' to not be completely freaking out. It also gave a bit of an insight into Peter's 'I'm a dick' behaviour earlier there. And the last scene went through a few edits too, after replacing an entirely different Lizzie scene, and being switched around with the next Neal/Peter scene.
> 
> Also, I'm going to call outside interference on all those dirty-minded writers on this site who got me hooked on A/B/O stories, and especially Magistrate's unfinished 'braintic' that set off a whole bunch of White Collar a/b/o scenes that are slowly resolving themselves into a story, too. I just have way too many ideas and not enough coherency, I think...
> 
> And there was also annoying RL stuff, too, like working for people I know, to scrounge up enough money for the dog's food, and knitting the mother-birthday sweater. (Which has to be fixed now, the sleeves are too tight. It's always the sleeves...) Add to that my computer doing it's usual, 'nah, don't want to work properly today' routine and freezing up when I look at it the wrong way... I need a new computer, anyone want to buy me one? j/k. Honestly, what I really need is to win a lottery... Even a small one would be nice. But, I suppose nearly everyone could say the same thing, too...

“What was that about?  Are Annemarie and Petra here?”  Neal he stood smoothly and headed across the room towards his handler.  Peter frowned, considering.

“Annemarie was.”  He paused a moment before continuing, earning himself a suspicious look.  “Petra, I would assume, is in the custody of child services.”  The agent watched his partner out of the corner of his eye.  Neal paused at the statement, looking like he wasn’t sure whether to be worried about that or relieved.

“I’m a little surprised she didn’t just dump her on the side of the road or something.”  He admitted, finally.

“A church.”  The older man confessed.  “Ressler already set Keen to looking for her.  We’ll find her.”  Neal looked more than a little worried at that news, and Peter was concerned for a moment that he’d try to go off searching himself, but then he just nodded, the mask that fooled everyone sliding down over his features.  Well, almost everyone.  Peter had always seen past it.  Still, it was a good sign, and the agent relaxed, reminding himself that Neal did, after all, know that locating and retrieving something, whether it was a priceless piece of art or an 8-month old baby, could sometimes take time.

Peter started up the stairs, then, but stopped when they reached the second floor, turning back to eye his partner, only a few steps behind.

“I expect you to apologize to Kramer.”  He stated, firmly, hoping the consultant wouldn’t make a big deal of the demand.  “And work with him.  Politely.”  Neal stared at him, looking as shocked as if the agent had slapped him, before his eyes narrowed.

“No.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“I’m not…”  Neal began, the quickly fell silent as one of the cops came down the hall toward them.  He reached out to catch his handler’s arm, the agent allowing him to pull him into the nearest room.  Peter sighed inwardly as the smaller man closed the door behind them before resuming his statement.  Of course he wouldn’t just be agreeable, for once.

“I am not apologizing to him.  If anything, he should be thanking me.”

“ _Thanking_ you?”  Peter repeated, then settled into his usual pose, hands on hips.  “Enlighten me, then.  How exactly does that work?”

“A child could...  _You_ could have picked his pocket.” 

“I’ll have you know I’ve kept…  No, that’s not the point here, stop trying to distract me.”  He waved a hand dismissively, then pointed in the general direction of the workroom.  “You are going to go in there and tell him you’re sorry, and help him catalogue whatever’s in there.  I don’t care whether you fake it or not.  Or, of course, you can spend some time _alone_ thinking about it and then we can go over to the Hoover building later and you can apologize to him there.”

“How about neither.”  Neal snapped, looking stubborn.

“Unless you’ve forgotten, you’re not actually on a contract right now.”  The conman had suspected that, actually, but he hadn’t been completely sure before.  Apparently Peter had thought he knew.  “Not to mention you skipped out on your probation and have been living under an assumed name ever since.  If you had behaved yourself earlier, he wouldn’t have any reason at all for suspicion, but as it is, he could take you in for theft and fleeing custody, and that will all come right back around.  And if your attitude puts you back on Phil’s radar, I’m not going to pull your ass out of the fire this time.”

“If I’m not under a contract, then there’s no reason to obey you anyway.”  Neal pointed out, more out of curiosity to see what the response would be than a real threat.  Peter took a step forward, looking furious, and Neal backed up uncertainly.

“Do you really want to go that way, Neal?”  The agent’s voice was dangerously quiet, brown eyes meeting his own harshly, and Neal took another step back, finding the closed door behind him.  He knew, logically, that the other man wouldn’t _actually_ hurt him.  Peter could be rough when he was pissed off, and he had given him bruises more than once via a careless grip, but he had never _really_ become violent, except for that once, over the stolen Nazi treasure and Elizabeth’s subsequent kidnapping, and Neal knew he deserved far worse than being pushed up against a wall for his part in that.  But the tone still scared him a little.

“I don’t think a secured building with four FBI agents in it and a good number more SWAT and DCPD officers right outside, in a closed room with _me,_ is a very smart place for you to decide you want to make this official.”  No, Neal agreed silently.  Being in the same _state_ as his handler was not a smart place to decide to make it official.  Peter paused, before adding, “And being back in jail is going to make it a little hard for you to raise a daughter.”  The conman held back a wince at the threat, reluctantly looking away, staring angrily out the room’s filthy window instead.

“Now, are you going to apologize and behave yourself?”  The agent asked after a moment, his voice calmer, but no less firm.

“Not like I have a choice.”  Neal answered bitterly.  The tracker seemed heavier around his ankle, all of a sudden.

“It’s about time you remembered that.”  Peter reached past him for the doorknob, and Neal stepped out of the way, remaining silent as he followed his captor out of the room.

 

******

 

Whoever had been locked in this room had certainly put their time to good use, Samar reflected.  She didn’t know much about art, admittedly, but the dozen or so paintings stored in the corner of the room looked well-done to her eye.  The art crimes agent who had just entered the room apparently agreed, eyeing one of a couple of brightly dressed women.

“I’d almost swear this was the original.”  His tone was dry, vaguely knowing.  He set the artwork aside and picked another out, eyeing it critically.  Samar had already decided he wasn’t one of her favourite people.  He had a self-righteous sort of air about him, that she had learned to associate with the type of person who knew they were good at what they did, and expected everyone else to cede to them in other areas, as well.  Reddington had it too, sometimes, when he was in a mood, but he usually disguised it a bit better.  “Somebody went to a lot of effort.”

“Someone else went to a lot of effort to keep them in here, too.”  The Mossad agent pointed out.

“Sorry?”  Kramer replied absently.

“The door is heavy steel, where the other ones on this floor are regular hollow ones, and the hinges are on the outside, with a heavy deadbolt at the top and bottom.  There isn’t even a keyhole accessible from the inside.”  She pointed out.  “An escape artist, possibly.  The windows are well covered.”  She went over to study one; not a crack showed between the two-by-fours.  “And heavy enough to make them difficult to break without someone hearing, even if the captive was left alone.  Add to that these heavy gauge nails, most likely 4 or 5 inches long, too, and the high drywalled ceilings instead of the panelled type elsewhere in the building, and somebody didn’t want their artist sneaking away on them.”

“I didn’t notice the door.”  The man admitted.  “I assumed the windows were to keep light from showing outside.”

That could have been part of the reason, too, Samar agreed.  If the door was taken out of the equation, yes, the rest _could_ be seen as incidental, or an attempt to hide.  But you didn’t lock a door from the outside like that if you were trying to protect something inside the room.

“You’re not FBI.”  Kramer commented, frowning as he studied the painting, making notes on the evidence form for it.

“Mossad.”  Samar answered.  She was bagging up the paint tubes and other items that didn’t need any assessment.  “I’m attached to an FBI counter-terrorism taskforce.”  The agent straightened to look at her.

“Petey’s in white collar.”

“He’s consulting.”  She considered a moment before adding, being deliberately vague.  “Caffrey’s working with us undercover.  Apparently they come as a pair.”

“Yes, I noticed that.  It’s a shame.  He keeps letting his friendship with the thief blind him.  Once a convict, always a convict.”

“You don’t like Caffrey?”  Hadn’t Burke said they were fighting over him, though?

“I like his skills, but you really can’t trust him.  He did just steal that control bracelet right out of my pocket.  I’ve seen him pull jobs right under Petey’s watch.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t stolen something from you, at some point.”

“He did try.  We discussed it and he promised not to do it again.”  Privately she thought she couldn’t blame the thief for the bracelet.  She’d probably have taken it too.  She wouldn’t have gone running right back to the man who had just handed her over, though, like a dog running home to his master, despite this particular one already knowing full well he was going to get in trouble for it.  She wasn’t sure if that was more of an indicator of Caffrey’s trust in Burke, or Burke’s training of Caffrey.  Maybe it was a bit of both.

“His promises aren’t worth the breath he wastes on them.  If I had a CI who behaved like that, he’d find himself back in orange before the day was out.”

“That’s a very ‘final’ solution.”  She remembered Burke’s comment about not wanting to use the box too often.  It was probably a good thing Kramer didn’t know about it, or have control of Caffrey.  He’d surely break him, and she really didn’t like the mental image that formed of the man, quiet and withdrawn, blue eyes dull and fearful.

And then the woman had to wonder what the Art Crimes agent would think of the FBI’s agreement with Red.  He, after all, had killed on their cases, more than once, even killing the woman he had supposedly brought to their attention to protect, she had heard.  It had been before she had joined up.  And only Liz had any clue of what illegal business he was still running now.

She almost wished she could see Kramer meet the crimelord, if she wasn’t sure it would end with Red in a bad mood and a mysteriously missing FBI agent.

“Personally, I wish every criminal I’ve dealt with was as easy to handle and agreeable as Caffrey is.”  She stated firmly, after a moment.

“He’s a conman.  It’s what they do.”  Samar turned, fixing the FBI agent with a hard stare.

“I’ve dealt with conmen before.”  She practically worked with one, “I know their types, I know their tricks.  Neal Caffrey is a sweetheart with a bit of a kleptomania problem.”

“Kleptomaniacs can’t help themselves.”  Burke’s voice broke in.  “Neal is quite capable of ignoring the urge, he just chooses not to.”  The NY agent stepped into the fair-sized room, urging his CI ahead of him with a hand planted firmly between the other’s shoulderblades, pausing a moment to eye the setting for one of the deadbolts thoughtfully.  At least he had picked up on the connotation, Samar noted, although with his own escape artist, he was probably a little more aware of that sort of thing.

“A nice little workroom.”  He commented, after a moment, glancing around.  Caffrey, she noted, seemed overly reluctant to be in the room, staying near the door and barely glancing at Kramer.  Or, possibly, she amended, it was the painting the senior agent reached for again; he didn’t seen all that interested in any of the others, either, for a supposed art thief.

“It is.”  Kramer flipped the painting around for the other FBI agent to see.  “Look familiar?”

“The Entrance of the Masked Dancers.  That does bring back a memory or two.  Doesn’t it, Neal?”  Samar frowned, sure she was obviously missing something, by the flat tone Burke’s voice edged into.  The consultant just shrugged.

“I’ve developed a disinterest in his work.”  He answered, trying to sound apathetic.  “It’s a bit… obvious.”  His handler hummed knowingly, looking around, moving over to where Samar was filling out her own evidence tags, studying the bagged tubes of paint and other painting paraphernalia on the table by the easel a moment before casting an expectant look back at his convict.  Caffrey scowled at the floor a moment, then seemed to steel himself and moved over to where Kramer stood, stopping a few feet away.

“I…”  He cast a furious glare at his handler again, before continuing.  “I would like to apologize.  I shouldn’t have picked your pocket and taken the bracelet.”  His tone sounded more irritated than apologetic.  Kramer gave him a judging look.  The criminal didn’t meet his gaze, fixing on a point on the far wall instead.

“I’m surprised.”  The agent commented, after a moment.  “That actually almost sounded honest.”  The thief’s faintly pleading look toward Burke this time almost seemed to say ‘I did try’.  “There might be a smidgen of sense to your theory, after all, Petey.  Maybe you can teach a convict new tricks.  If you catch him young enough.”

“If you handle him right.”  Burke corrected.  The subject of the conversation kept his gaze averted; whatever he felt about the two of them talking over his head, he didn’t let it show.

“Hmm.”  It was neither agreement or disavowal.  “I didn’t think it was really that cold out.”  Kramer handed the painting of the dancers off to a waiting officer and gave Caffrey a studying glance.  The conman just shrugged, tugging at the FBI jacket slightly.

“Low BMI.”  He answered blandly.

“He’s fine.”  The younger agent broke in absently, at the boarded windows now.  Samar didn’t think he was talking about the cold.

“It’s usually colder in basements.”  She put in.  Caffrey flashed a smile at her, but it seemed more habit than a real attempt.

“Thank you, Samar.”  He stated.  She just nodded.  Honestly, if Burke wanted to let his CI wear his jacket, since it must have been his handler’s, what was the harm?  Maybe it was another of those ‘too close’ things the Art Crimes agent had been complaining about.  Kramer didn’t strike her as the type to lend a criminal his jacket unless they were freezing to death or something. 

The senior agent just frowned at his former protégé, seeming about to add something else, but then let it go.

“All right,” Burke said with a sigh.  “It’s getting late and I’m sure we all want to go home.  Neal will help fill out the paperwork for those.”

“You can take notes, then.”  Kramer nodded to the evidence folder.  “If I find your fingerprints on any of these, I won’t have you using this as an excuse.”

“Neal’s fingerprints aren’t on anything in here.”  The White Collar agent answered, giving his partner a knowing look.  The forger didn’t respond, supposedly intent on filling out one of the evidence forms.  Burke moved back over to the bagged paints, as they were being gathered up by another officer, suddenly reaching to pick out one of the bags, with a small white tub of something in it.  The Asian woman gave him an uncertain look and he just waved her off with a nod.

“Clear drying red UV paint?”  He read aloud off the tub’s label.  Kramer looked over.  Caffrey was still ignoring his handler.

“Does that mean something?”  Samar asked curiously.

“It’s unusual.”  He told her.  “Neal?”  The con looked up finally, giving the item a careless glance.

“Someone’s a fan of Iron Man.”  He answered coolly, and to Samar, a bit too quickly for someone who didn’t have any previous knowledge.  Apparently Kramer thought so as well, by the suspicious glance he gave the criminal.

“I believe a lot of people are.  It’s a popular franchise.”  Samar had a good idea, now, how things were adding up, but she still didn’t understand the significance of that particular answer.

“I’d think you wouldn’t be.”  Kramer told his unwilling aide.  “What with your supposed aversion to violence.”  The younger man apparently decided to ignore him, too.

“Neal likes Stark’s personality.”  Burke stated.  “But the reference he’s making here is to the first movie, where Stark pulled a scheme right under the noses of his captors.  His was a bit more complicated than marking paintings, though.”

He left the room, then, and Samar didn’t miss the way the CI immediately tensed up.  He stayed where he was, though, finally relaxing when the agent returned with a UV flashlight he borrowed from one of the officers.  Pulling on another pair of gloves, the man picked out a painting, a small sailboat full of men in a storm, and set it up on the easel.

“Agent Navabi, if you could get the lights?”  Samar turned off the room’s bright lights and moved closer to watch with the others, Caffrey, again, seeming unusually uninterested, as Burke passed the light over the painting.  It looked perfectly normal, until he reached the lower left corner, where a very neatly painted small stylized pair of handcuffs glowed red.

“Someone has a sense of humour.”  Samar commented.  Burke hummed an agreement, and moved to shine the light over one of the other paintings.  It had the exact same marking, in the same spot.

“I imagine all of these paintings will have that.”  He commented, standing.  Samar went to turn the lights back on.  ”It would make them ridiculously easy to catch and trace.”

“The problem with forcing someone who hates you to work for you,” Caffrey commented then, “is that as soon as you become distracted, they’ll stab you in the back.”

“Then you just have to make sure they know the consequences of that sort of behaviour.”  Kramer answered back.

“Or you can try and make them devoted to you.”  Burke contradicted.  “That works, doesn’t it, Neal?”

“Sometimes.”  The thief admitted grudgingly.  Samar had to agree that it certainly had for them.

 

******

 

“Oh, I know,” Liz soothed, lifting her cranky daughter out of her car seat.  “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”  It was closer to seven then six, since she had stayed late to try and follow up every lead she could find on Caffrey’s daughter, with no success, thus far.  She was hoping Red was having better luck with his alternate sources, but she hadn’t heard anything from him, and actually didn’t want to interrupt any possible meetings, as satisfying as that often was.

“Hey, you’re the new neighbour, aren’t you?  Hi, I’m Tina.”  Liz turned to look at the speaker, a slightly chubby 20-something dirty-blonde woman.  Nothing special, just like the area their new apartment was in.  The apartment, and the surroundings, were a little run-down, but it was completely theirs, with none of her often too-invasive CI’s presence.

“I guess I am.”  Liz agreed.  “I’m Liz, and this is Agnes.”

“Isn’t she cute.  Where’s her daddy?”  Tina smiled at the little girl, but didn’t seem too concerned when Agnes only kicked out and whined.  The street around them was fairly empty, most of the occupants probably inside making or eating their dinners.

“He’s… away on business, right now.”  The brunette hedged.  “I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

“Ah, well, I’d better warn you about Sean, then.”

“Sean?”  Liz repeated, feeling apprehensive.

“Oh, don’t worry, he’s not dangerous at all, he just…  Well, when you see him, you’ll understand.  Some of the husbands around here don’t like him.  He’s to die for, and he’s got the most gorgeous blue eyes.  He flirts with everyone, too.”

“Oh, really.  I know a guy like that, actually.  I met him at work recently.  Funny, his name’s Sean too…”  That was Caffrey’s alias, and it was just too much to be coincidence.  “Wears a fedora hat?”

“That’s him.”  Tina confirmed.  “Where do you work, if you don’t mind me asking?”  Her manner was too-innocent, and Liz could immediately tell she was fishing for information, probably trying to find out more about her crush.  A black car turned onto their street, moving slowly up.  Maybe somebody looking for an address or a place to park, Liz thought.

“An office downtown.  I’m not much more than a secretary, really, filling out paperwork and taking calls.”  Well, that was what had happened today, at least.  “Sean just stopped in, looking for his partner.”  And maybe that would turn her away some.  Tina seemed nice enough, but somehow Liz didn’t think she was Caffrey’s type.  Too… flighty, maybe, was the best word to use.

Not that it mattered, anyway.  As soon as this case was over, Liz was sure Agent Burke was going to cart his CI back off to New York, willing or not.  You didn’t buy an expensive tracking system like that to only use it for a couple weeks, or a month.

“His partner?”  Tina repeated.  “Are you sure?”  Liz gave a one-shouldered shrug and started to answer, when the car suddenly sped up and she caught a glimpse of a gun appearing in the window.

“Get down!”  She exclaimed, crouching behind the car and pulling Tina down with her, holding Agnes close as shots sprayed through the air, the sound of shattering glass following after them.  The alarm of the next car down blared to life as a couple stray bullets smashed into it as well, and the shooters raced off down the street.

“Oh my god.  OH MY GOD!”  Tina screeched, as Liz slowly stood, looking around cautiously.  The illegal gun Red had given her for protection was under the seat of the car, but it would cause more issues than solve them if there was no one after them now.  And the sound of sirens meant somebody had already called the police.

The real question, Liz decided, as the other woman continued to freak out, and other people ventured out to see what had happened, was _why_ she was being targeted.  It could, honestly, have been for any number of things.  Revenge from an old case, or someone who didn’t like a convicted killer in their neighbourhood, or a fed, for that matter, former or not.  It could also have had to do with Neal’s case, or the questions she’d been asking about the baby.  Hell, it could have been entirely unrelated to her and just somebody trying to goad Red into something.  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been used like that.

The officers, when they arrived, simply dismissed it as a random drive-by, explaining casually that there had been a few of those in the area.  Liz wasn’t quite so sure of that, by the somewhat insulting tone the lead cop had taken with her.  He hadn’t even asked her name, which meant he most likely knew who she was.  She had to wonder if the report would even end up getting filed, or just lost on the way back to the precinct.

She was half-tempted to take Agnes and track down whatever safehouse Red was holed up in tonight, but her pride stopped her, and she instead went upstairs and made supper for them.

She did give in slightly, though, when she couldn’t relax enough to sleep, to phone Baz, and the head of Reddington’s mercenaries showed up less than half an hour later, the greying blond first searching the apartment professionally, checking the locks on windows and the door, before settling down in the living room with a deck of cards.  Liz slept through the night peacefully, and if, in the morning, there were a few drops of blood on the floor by the window, where they might have fallen from someone being strangled by a garrotting wire, well, it was probably better if she didn’t ask.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was my birthday, so you guys get a new chapter, I guess. IDK, makes as much sense as anything else in my life. Found out something interesting, though. Yesterday was also Amir Arison's birthday. So, that's cool, I share a birthday with Aram. He's a little older, though.
> 
> Everybody will be glad to hear we've seen the last of Kramer. Unless I decide to get him killed or something, that sounds like it would be fun.
> 
> Yet another difficult chapter. The first scene was written up at before the last chapter, (Remember my comment about fitting the mood with what came after?) and the basic Ressler stand-off not long after that. but all the rest of it just wasn't cooperating. I actually think I lost Red's 'voice' there in that last scene a bit. God, the man is a trial to write...
> 
> Fun fact: Neal _was_ going to actually get hit and hurt worse in a partial rewrite I did and then scrapped, but the scene was writing too slow, and it would, again, complicate following scenes. (yup, another one of those ^^;) I figured it would slow things up too much anyway, and become awkward, so I let him off lightly...

“Sit there.”  Peter pointed at the couch as he moved to hang his jacket up, loosening his tie.  Neal just scowled at him.  The conman was far from feeling like his normal cheery self.  He was tired, stressed out, and worried over Petra.  Added to that was the discovery, after everything had finally been catalogued and sent to evidence, (and at least Kramer had limited his comments, after the first few barbs, to work-related ones,) that Peter planned to still hold him to his 20 foot radius, as punishment for ‘breaking’ it by cheating.  Granted, he had nothing against Peter’s hotel room, and the couch was comfortable enough, but after the day he had had, he wanted solitude and an expensive bottle or three of wine, not beers and baseball with a domineering FBI agent.  And if Peter continued to keep him that close, he wouldn’t be able to do his own search for his daughter.

“Are you sure you don’t want to drop me off in the kennels out back?”  He spat.  His handler turned to give him a hard look.  His mood had obviously rubbed off on the older man.

“I don’t know what…  Actually, yes, I know exactly what’s wrong with you.  You’re sulking because I made you apologize to Kramer.”

“I’m pissed off because you’re treating me like a pet.  Although I’m pretty sure you never just handed Satchmo’s leash over to someone you knew he hated.”

“Cowboy up, Caffrey.”  Neal’s scowl darkened at the words.  He _hated_ that phrase.  “All you had to do was wait there and do as you were told.  You weren’t in any danger, at least not until you came bumbling in like a clueless idiot.”

“I-”

“No.”  Peter cut him off.  “You’ve obviously forgotten how this works.  I tell you to do something, you do it.  If I hand you off to another agent, then you damned well stay with them and do what they tell you until I decide otherwise.  And I don’t care who it is.  This was no different than me leaving you with Diana or Jones or, hell, I actually handed you off to Siegel.”  Neal’s breath caught at the reminder of his dead temporary handler, but Peter didn’t notice.  “I don’t suppose it occurred to you for even a second that that little stunt just proved his argument that I can’t control you?”

“Technically it means that Kramer can’t-”

“Neal, if you finish that sentence, I will take you back down to the Post Office and you will spend the weekend in that cell.”  The conman pressed his lips together angrily, not daring to test the threat, glaring sulkily at the couch he had been ordered to.

“And now you’re pouting again.”  Peter growled, throwing up his hands.  “Go.”  He ordered after a moment, pointing towards the door to the bedroom.  “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to hear you.”  Neal gave him an incredulous look.

“You’re sending me to your room?”

“If you want to behave like a child, then you’ll get treated like one.  Now.  Before I change my mind about the box.”  Neal stared a moment longer, but when the other took a step forward, he fairly jumped to obey, moving past his handler with a furious glare and into the room.  It wasn’t that large or fancy, a plain double bed, nightstands, dresser and closet, a pair of suitcases in the corner, probably empty.

“And stay out of the drawers.”

Neal just stood a moment, thinking a few rather uncharitable thoughts towards the other man, and half-plotting a way to get out of the hotel, and his anklet, without Peter noticing, but then he just sighed, sitting down on the bed.  It would take another scheme on the level of the Pink Panthers one…  Actually, no, because there was no way he’d be able to pull that scam on the man twice.  He’d have better luck convincing Mozzie to join the FBI.  The problem with showing someone how your best trick worked was, of course, that afterwards, you couldn’t fool them any more.  Not that he had ever had that much luck fooling his handler anyway.

Well, he decided, suddenly feeling completely exhausted, if he was going to be stuck in here, he might as well make use of the bed.  He stripped off the windbreaker, leaving it in an untidy pile, and his own leather jacket, considering hanging that up in the closet, but then just deciding to lay it out neatly at the bed’s foot.  Besides, reaching the closet would mean passing the still-open door, and he really didn’t feel like testing how strict Peter’s statement really was.  He toed his tennis shoes off and stretched out on the bed, on top of the covers.

By the time Peter checked on him ten minutes later, concerned by the silence, he was fast asleep.

 

******

 

“This isn’t just a normal missing baby…”  Reddington slid into the backseat of the car, frowning in irritation.  Dembe turned to look back at him curiously.  Despite the bodyguard’s objections, the crimelord had met this latest informant alone.  “Mario insists he hasn’t heard anything about missing babies.”

“You don’t believe him.”  Dembe commented.  Reddington huffed.

“I didn’t have a chance to even ask before he was babbling denials.  And it’s odd that he should have said babies, rather than one baby.  I think our art thief may have stumbled into a completely unrelated case.  Which doesn’t surprise me, really, given his history.  He seems very good at falling into predicaments.”

“Another Lady Ambrosia maybe?”  The bodyguard mused.  “It sounds like the mother didn’t want the child.”  The older man frowned, considering.  That case had actually been one of their more straightforward ones, a woman who ‘stole’ mentally handicapped children from families where one of the parents wouldn’t agree to adopting the child out, raising them herself.  It sounded nice, until one added in the caveat that she murdered the children in an elaborate ritual when they reached puberty, to ‘protect’ them from becoming adults.

“I’d actually prefer that, it would mean the girl would be safe, at least for the foreseeable future.  Unfortunately, we’re probably dealing with a simple trafficking ring.”  His lips twisted in distaste.  As many different crimes as he had committed, and as ruthless as he could be, Reddington hated those who preyed on the young and innocent.

A phone rang then, interrupting his musing, and Dembe answered it, before passing it back.

“It’s Baz.”

“Yeah?”  Reddington answered, his expression going cold as he listened.

“No, that’s fine, of course.  Keep an eye on them, and let me know if anything does happen.  I’ll look into finding out who it was.”  He flicked the phone closed.

“Lizzie phoned Baz to come and stay with her.  Apparently she was the target of a drive-by.”  Dembe’s expression darkened at the news.

“This is becoming a very complicated situation.”  He stated.

“It _could_ be unrelated.”  Red answered, though he didn’t sound like he believed that.  “There are still plenty of ordinary people who would recognize her, and I’ve enough enemies of my own.  If it is related, whoever they are, they are moving remarkably quickly.  They have to have somebody on the inside.”  He flipped the phone opened again, dialling a different number.

“Aram.”  He greeted cheerfully after a moment.  “I wonder if you might do me a favour.  I need a list of the places Lizzie contacted at the office today…”

 

******

 

Neal was awoken by a beam of light shining through the bedroom window.  The curtains had been pulled closed, but apparently not enough.  The smell of coffee floated through the room, and, for a moment, with his eyes closed, the conman was transported back, almost expecting June’s housekeeper to come knocking on the French doors to call him to breakfast, or Peter or Mozzie to bang on the main door.  Or not, depending on what mood the visitor happened to be in.

Then he opened his eyes, and realised he was still lying on the bed in Peter’s room.  A blanket had been tossed over him at some point, and the door had been pulled mostly closed, but he was still fully dressed.  Confused, he stood, going over to the door, quickly stepping back as Peter stepped through.

“About time you woke up.”  The agent said, though the tone was teasing, not reprimanding.  “Are you feeling better?”  Neal frowned, but honestly, the rest had cleared up his bad mood, mostly.  A good cup of coffee, some food, and a shower and clean change of clothes, preferably in that order, would probably fix the rest of it.

“I’m fine.”  He answered.  Peter gave him a look over, seemed to accept his claim, and stepped back out of his way.

“I had your other pair of jeans and shirt cleaned.  They’re in the bathroom.”  It took the CI a moment to figure out what he was talking about, and then he remembered the clothing he had been wearing when Peter had caught him.  They had been far from his favourites, so he hadn’t really considered what had happened to them after he had left the duffel bag sitting by Peter’s desk.

“Thanks.”  He started to step out of the room, and then paused thoughtfully.  “Did you sleep on the couch?”  For all his lack of interest in other areas, Peter liked having a good bed to sleep on, and had rarely hesitated to use his authority to claim the more preferred sleeping location when the situation came up.  Now, the older man just shrugged carelessly, and almost managed to hide a wince, most likely a sore shoulder muscle.

“I enjoyed the peace and quiet too much to get you up again.  Besides, the couch was between you and the door, and you already took the bracelet once.”  Neal heard the excuse for what it was, so, while the insinuation stung, he let it slide, just nodding and heading for the bathroom.  Maybe he’d have that shower and clothes first, actually.

Half an hour later, Neal left the bathroom, freshly showered and groomed, starting towards the breakfast cart, and his handler, fully dressed and outfitted, looked up from where he stood with a coffee mug near the window, admiring the view.

“So, what are…”  Neal began to ask, and suddenly got a flash of something, instinct, intuition, maybe pure dumb luck.  His eyes widened in fear as he leapt the space between them, barrelling the larger man over backward just as something small and fast smashed through the window behind them.  The cup went flying as Peter landed hard, the impact and the weight of his consultant knocking the breath out of him and making him black out for a moment.  Faintly he heard a door opening.  Between one blink and another, Neal, still half-lying on his partner, had Peter’s gun in hand, the safety off and the weapon pointed unerringly at the intruder.

 

******

 

Ressler had decided, late the night before, to speak to Burke privately about his concerns over the op.  It was one thing for the agent to say his CI was usually fine in the field, but with the dangers that seemed to be wrapped up in this case, (a surveillance photo he had received the night before had shown Alexis meeting with Zane Keates, which upped the stakes considerably,) he wanted to be absolutely sure he wasn’t sending a helpless man to die.

He was just about to knock when he heard a smash of glass from inside the room, and the sound of something heavy falling.  It could have been nothing, but years of instinct said otherwise, and the blond had the door (not locked, a bit foolish) opened and his gun out and pointed in a heartbeat.

The scene was confusing, to say the least.  The other agent lay stretched out on his back on the floor, lying far too still, and the conman was half-lying over him, gun in a very steady hand and a half-wild look in the blue eyes.  It looked, for all intents and purposes, like the criminal had gone rogue and murdered his handler.

But Burke had said Caffrey was non-violent.  And though he had also admitted that the con was quite capable of using a weapon, that, along with a lack of apparent blood and the friendship the two seemed to have, held his hand from that final decision.

“Put the gun down.”  He ordered, and took a slow step forward.  Caffrey’s hand twitched slightly, the gun lifting a bit, and a bullet buried itself in the wall behind him, close enough for him to feel the wind of its passing.  Ressler froze again, suddenly certain that that hadn’t just been a bad shot.  For a moment, they remained frozen like that, then a breathless voice broke the scene.

“Sniper,” Burke rasped.  “Neal…”  The agent reached up shakily to close a hand over his consultant’s arm, running down it to the gun, pulling down slightly and flicking the safety back on.  The man’s other arm had curled up around the conman’s waist.

And Caffrey was suddenly shaking, the weapon dropping from his hand.  Ressler moved the few quick steps to the room’s remote control, lying on the coffee table, hitting the button that closed the room’s blinds and turning the lights on, then closed the distance between himself and the pair, kicking the gun away out of reach, tucking his own away.

“Are you all right?”  He asked the other agent, pulling out his phone to call in a report.  By the time anyone found the nest, the sniper would probably be gone, but they might find something left behind.

“Yeah.”  Burke answered, slowly sitting up, his arm still around the criminal, and Ressler wasn’t sure whether it was for his own support or to settle his partner.  “Just had the wind knocked out of me.  He’s heavier…  Neal, you’re bleeding.”  Sure enough, the white t-shirt the man wore, the same one they had caught him in, Ressler thought, was slowly turning red at the back of his left shoulder.

“It’s not that bad.  It just grazed me, I think.”  He said, carefully finagling the shirt off, revealing a long slash across his shoulderblade.

“It’ll need stitches.”  The older man commented, standing.  “Stay there.”

They had new arrivals just then, though, two DCPD officers, followed by the hotel’s concierge.  The man looked horrified at the glass scattered on the floor.  Ressler exchanged looks with the other agent, and he moved to speak with the officers, while Burke dealt with the manager.  Unsurprisingly, it was the blond who finished first, and caught the CI trying to stand, looking more than a little unsteady.

“You were told to stay.”  He pointed out.

“It’s fine.”  The other answered, and Ressler frowned at him.

“You can stay sitting, or I’ll put you on your stomach, painfully, and slap a few pairs of cuffs on you.”  The conman stared at him incredulously a moment, then decided he was apparently serious and sat back down.  Out of the corner of his eye, Ressler caught Burke watching the exchange surreptitiously, having apparently come to some sort of agreement with the manager.

“The FBI owes for a new window and repairs to the wall.”  The older agent said, coming back over.

“I’ll oversee the clean-up here.”  Ressler offered.  “You should probably get him to a doctor.”

“So I can get up now?”  Caffrey asked, a little too sweetly, and Ressler gave him an irritated look.  His handler just reached out to haul him to his feet and dragged him off to the bathroom for some quick first aid, lecturing on irritating other agents.  It sounded like it was repeated often.

 

******

 

Three hours in a waiting room, (with a trip out for Peter to bring back breakfast, because Neal was legitimately starving,) 15 stitches, and a prescription for some mild painkillers later, Peter guided his remarkably well-tempered CI into the Post Office.  Although, the mood might have had something to do with the fact that he had managed to acquire no less than four phone numbers, one of them from a fellow patient in the waiting room, and he might have gotten another one, had the woman not been married.  Peter privately thought the oversized T-shirt he wore (Peter’s, of course, he had had the choice between it and the one he had been wearing the day before) had only helped.  Nurses were already inclined to be caring, after all, and a pretty guy in slightly too loose clothes and a hero’s gunshot wound certainly hit a few buttons.  Peter heard more than a few comments about how he must be so happy to have such a self-sacrificing partner, which hadn’t hurt the conman’s disposition at all either.  Peter wondered how long it would be before Neal tried to use the incident as leverage over his handler.

Ressler, naturally, had gotten there ahead of them, and met them as they stepped off the elevator.

“You weren’t the only one attacked.”  He informed Peter, after a quick searching glance at Neal, most likely to make sure he was all right, the older man thought.  “Keen was targeted in a drive-by last night, and she thinks someone tried to finish the job later on.”

“Someone prowling around her building?”

“No.  Just a few drops of blood under the window.  She had one of Reddington’s mercenaries spend the night.  I told her to get in touch with him.”  Peter was a little surprised by how blasé the agent was about one of his CI’s partners possibly murdering a man, but, then, it seemed that Reddington got away with a _lot_ of less-than-legitimate behaviour.  He supposed it wasn’t that different from his own occasionally ‘don’t see, don’t tell’ policy with Neal and Mozzie, though, if a bit more extreme.

“No need.”  The crimelord strolled up to them.  “Baz kept me updated.  The would-be assassin was a thug from the area, named Jeremy Winston, and he didn’t know the guy who hired him.  It was done via computer.  I got Mr. Winston’s e-mail address for Aram, but most likely the client would have covered his tracks.  Though, he is using substandard help, so we might get lucky.”  He paused and eyed Neal.  “I’m told you had a bit of excitement.”  Neal shrugged, then winced slightly.

“Nothing big.  I’ve had worse.”

“That’s good to hear.  Bullet wounds are horribly painful things.  The real question, though, is why first Lizzie, and then you, Agent Burke, were targeted.  If this is related to our missing child, it would be more logical to go after the source of the disturbance.  You’re sure that wasn’t the case?”

“I doubt it.”  Peter answered, pressing a hand to his CI’s back, steering him towards his desk and the chairs there.  It was a clear testament to how psychologically worn out the other man was that he didn’t protest at all.  “Even at a distance, Neal and I don’t look that much alike.”

“Whoever hired them knows me.”  Neal said, sitting carefully.  “Or, at least, they’ve done their homework.”  Peter considered, then realised he was probably right.

“What makes you think that?”  Ressler asked.

“Because Peter likes to shoot people who try to kill me.”

“Way to make me sound like a psychopath.”  The agent in question complained.

“Well, sometimes he has to send them to jail instead.”  The conman continued with a grin.  Peter just shook his head.

“While he could have stated it better, he does have a point.  In our situation, most people would think Neal was disposable.  He’s a CI, a criminal, he’s caused me more trouble since I took him on than he did when I was chasing him.  Nobody would expect anybody to make a big fuss over it.  Hell, we had a case early on involving a Book of Hours where he went undercover, and I was actually the only person who cared that he might get hurt.  One of the other agents literally said he wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

“I thought my ‘sleep well’ follow up to that was particularly idyllic.”  The conman put in, looking proud of himself.  Peter blinked, but he supposed that really shouldn’t have surprised him that Neal had known.

“The point is,” Neal continued, “it wouldn’t make any sense to go after a cop and deal with the fallout from that, unless you knew you’d have an even worse time of it by taking out the cop’s pet.  Everyone who’s gone after me has immediately had Peter after them, and his record’s pretty good.”

“Does this have anything to do with Keates?”  Ressler spoke up then.

“Who?”  Neal responded, a little too quickly, a little too innocently.  A little off his game, actually.

“I’m sure you could tell us, Neal.”  Peter responded, fixing his CI with a pointed look.  Neal shifted and winced then, and Peter was sure he was playing up his injury as a distraction.

“He’s a terrorist.”  The blond agent answered instead, handing Peter a thick file.  “Among other things.  Basically if you name it, he’s done it.”

“Zane happily dives into pools even I avoid.”  Reddington added with more than a hint of distaste.  “He’s a pure psychopath, and very, very, dangerous.”

“And he’s meeting with your bosses.”  Peter commented, flipping the relevant photo for Neal to see.  “But you already knew that.”

“I only just found out.  That day I phoned you about the anklet.  That was the first time I ever saw him, and I couldn’t back out then.”

“So you thought you’d keep it a secret and hope I wouldn’t find out?  Dammit, Neal.”

“I was going to tell you.”  The conman protested.  “I got distracted.”

“He can’t pull out.”  Reddington put in.  “Not without disappearing completely, and even then it would be a chancy play.  Zane doesn’t like loose ends, and he already knew who our little spy really is.”  Neal muttered something about the irony of being called little, and Peter gave him a dirty look, silencing him.  “That’s why I intervened.  If you try to put another agent in there, he’d kill them and Blue here.”  Neal frowned at the nickname, but didn’t protest.  “It’s perfectly normal, however, and in character, for me to force my way in, and Zane thinks I’m playing the FBI and using him,” he nodded to Neal, “to do it.”

“Until he starts murdering the agents.”  Ressler snapped.

“He has no reason to attack Lizzie, and I’ve led him to believe that without Agent Burke, Caffrey’s uncontrollable.”

“That’s not entirely wrong.”  Peter mused.  Without his handler for back-up, and without his daughter as hostage, Neal certainly would have run.  Right back to New York and home territory, most likely.  Or a deserted beach half-way around the world.

“And Zane is a professional.  He wouldn’t use substandard hitmen.  If he wanted either of them dead, they would be.”

“So we have a new unknown player to deal with as well.”  Ressler stated.  “Well, for now, let’s deal with the one we know about.  We’ll meet in the War Room as soon as Samar and Liz get in.”  He strode off toward his office and Reddington stepped away to take a phone call.  Peter slapped the file on Zane down on the desk.

“I think I want some coffee.”  Neal said quickly.  “Do you want some coffee?”  He was up and out of the chair before the words were out of his mouth, and headed off toward the kitchenette.  Peter sighed and sat down, letting him go for now. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this one has been a long time coming... Sorry about that. I finally ended up purchasing an external case for my old disk, and, lucky me, it works. It's been a busy year, though. My hours at work went up a fair bit, before settling back down to one day more than I was getting before. (I like the job, I hate the boss. He's an idiot.) The animal total in the house increased with the addition of a 4-month-old rescue kitten (I call him Chase, now, because I have to chase him out of, off of, and away from everything. I usually don't believe in changing an animal's name, it confuses them, but he was young, and the previous owner called him Prancer. He's a cat, not a reindeer,) and a rabbit, but then decreased again when the rabbit died suddenly from unknown causes a month ago, and again last week with the death of my 15 year old cat due to complications from a cold and stupidity at the vets. He stopped eating and got dehydrated and they were obsessed over finding out what he was sick with and the dehydration instead of dealing with the fact that he had stopped eating. I'm currently in Peter's stage of grief, 'if only, if only...' And I also got caught up starting a couple other, less innocent stories, for WC and a couple other fandoms. (A/B/o is a pervasive and addictive genre, except for those people who need to take basic anatomy classes before they start writing things... A person can not have ALL the male parts and ALL the female parts. Two very important parts of those are actually the same thing in different sizes.) They may or may not get posted at some point. Dunno.
> 
> Anyway, I actually had this done for a while, and have just been mostly sitting on it, despite having gotten internet back (Yay for introductory offers) last month. Ironically enough, that was mostly because of a scene in the next chapter (which is also done, and will be following this one) which I'm not totally impressed with. Lizzie seems a little ooc to me, but the conversation is pretty important, so...
> 
> In other interesting little tidbits, the painting from the handcuff signature scene, The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, was actually referenced by name in The Blacklist this last season. Apparently Red procured the real painting for a friend of his in season 1, something I missed and will have to go back and look for now. I thought that was a little rather amusing coincidence.
> 
> And I discovered a rather big oops I made. In rewatching Au Revoir, I noticed, when Peter gets out Neal's box, he does remove Neal's FBI certification from it. You have to look quick, but it is there. So we'll just pretend that he ended up with an extra at some point, maybe after his escape to Cape Verde they gave him a new one or whatever. Either that or he forged it. That's probably a lot more likely.
> 
> As a last note, I will be making some small changes to the previous chapters. Nothing big or overly important, just a bit more description for people who aren't fans of one or another of the shows, small grammar or word changes, etc.
> 
> And, for anybody who reads it as well, I really _am_ trying to get over the writer's block on Rulers and Rogues.

“There is a very lovely painting located in the White House, Monet’s _Morning on the Seine_ …” Reddington began, once everyone had arrived and was gathered in the war room.  Agent Keen had brought her daughter again, not feeling safe leaving her with the babysitter, and the child was being watched after by another female Agent, Palmer, at the moment.

Neal had been fiddling with a handful of rubber bands he had purloined from somewhere, but Peter noticed him lift his head the slightest bit once the other criminal started talking, actually paying attention now.  Granted, the forger always perked up when artwork was mentioned, but the agent got a suspicious feeling, which was only punctuated by the crimelord’s next words.  “A little over ten years ago, a thief broke into the White House and tried to steal it.  Although the thief wasn’t caught, he was forced, supposedly, to leave the painting behind.  In fact, the current occupant of the frame is an outstanding forgery.”  He glanced around the room for the reaction.

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe,” Cooper stated.  “I remember that attempt, and the picture was verified afterwards by one of the FBI’s own art experts.”

“And yet…” Reddington countered.  “I know it is a forgery, because I know the man who has the original.”  And yes, Peter decided, his CI definitely had his angel expression in place.

“Neal.”  Peter gave the younger man a stern look.  “Care to share?”  He simply gave his handler an innocently curious look.  It didn’t work, of course.

“How do you know his friend doesn’t have the copy?” the thief queried.  “I would think it would be easier to sell a forged copy than break into the White House, switch the paintings, make it look like a botched robbery, and then sell the original.”

“Knowing my friend, I sincerely hope that’s not the case,” Red answered.

“And you never go the easier way,” Peter added.

“I would say it would be damned near impossible,” Ressler put in.  “I think you’re giving him too much credit.”  Neal stiffened a bit, but ignored the slight otherwise.

“Your faith in me is inspiring, Peter, as is the fact that you think I’d be able to do a copy that good, but he is right.  It would be nearly impossible.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed.  “ _Nearly_.  Did you do it?”  Neal got that vaguely secretive grin he wore when he wasn’t really trying to hide something, but still wasn’t quite willing to admit to it out loud.  The agent just shook his head.

“Ten years ago.  That would be at the end of your ‘showing off for Kate’ phase, then.  Had a bit of a screw-up, though, I assume?”

“It’s actually true?” Liz asked, giving Neal an awed look.  He just beamed back at her cheerily.

“Son of a…” Ressler shook his head.  Peter frowned then, considering.

“You said an FBI expert validated it,” he said, to Cooper.  “Do you know who, exactly?”

“I’d have to look it up,” the other agent answered, frowning in Neal’s direction.  The conman pretended not to notice.

“It was a Special Agent Kramer, according to the incident report I have here,” Aram offered.  Neal laughed and Peter just sighed at him.

“Laugh now.  You know he’s going to have your head when he finds out.”

“In any case,” Reddington broke in, “this particular painting is our would-be thieves’ objective.  There is plenty of other artwork on the shopping list as well, but that one is a must have, for whatever reason.”  He waved a hand in apparent bewilderment.  “I can only assume they think it’s real and have a buyer already.”

“Or it’s a cover for something else,” Neal said thoughtfully.  “The demand is for the complete work, frame and all.  It isn’t a particularly fancy frame, so there’s no real reason to want it.”

“Maybe there’s something hidden in it,” Peter commented.  “Like the Music Box, or that book.”  Neal looked faintly pained at the memory.

“I’ve had enough of those.  Someone always gets hurt.”

“Generally after you start keeping secrets.”  Peter gave his CI a pointed look, and the younger man turned his full attention to what looked like the beginning of a new rubber band ball, recognizing the reprimand for what it was.

“Whatever the case,” the taskforce’s head cut in, “I can contact the Secret Service.  If there’s something in there, frame or painting, they can find it.”

“Really, Harold, has our time together taught you nothing?”  Reddington shook his head, as if dismayed.  “Putting my faith in your government’s intelligence-gathering ability aside, this could, quite possibly, simply be a test to find out whether our little thief is really as good as he says.”

“Again with the little,” Neal huffed, under his breath.  If the other criminal heard the complaint, he ignored it, and Peter only cast his CI a quelling look.

“So you expect me to authorise a B and E?” Cooper responded.  “In the Whitehouse, of all places?”

“If he doesn’t manage it, then you can congratulate them on a perfect security system, and ask to share resources,” the older CI ceded.  “If he does, well, you have something embarrassing to bring up at the next country club meeting.”

The dark-skinned man scowled at Neal a moment, the conman again focusing on his diversion, though he was out of bands to add to it, before turning his gaze to the thief’s handler.

“He’s your CI.  What do you think?”  Peter pursed his lips, not missing the way said CI was watching him with a hopeful expression.  Too hopeful, in his opinion.  The younger man looked like a druggie begging for a fix.  Which wasn’t really far off, honestly.

“I think we’re offering wine to an alcoholic,” he stated finally, and Neal’s face fell slightly.  “But, if anybody can pull this off, it’s Neal Caffrey.”  The conman beamed at him, and the Assistant Director sighed, but nodded.

“Fine.  We will go ahead on this,” he agreed reluctantly.  “And hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces.”

“When is this theft supposed to take place?” Samar queried.  “Do we need to run interference or anything?”

“Not for a few days, at least,” Neal answered, with a bright smile that only earned him a faint frown from the woman.  Ressler looked as unimpressed with the whole situation as his superior did.  “I need some things, and time to plan it, and track down my partner.”

“You have a partner?” Liz echoed.  Peter understood her confusion.  Neal had always been considered a mostly solo act, only occasionally pairing up with other criminals.  The fact that he had supposedly pulled off most of his activities alone had been part of what had earned him his reputation as the world’s best, though the title still certainly wasn’t undeserved.  Even now, Mozzie, his mentor and habitual collaborator, was undocumented in his protégé’s files.

“He provides supplies and information, usually, and helps with planning,” the CI explained.  “Once in a while he’ll lend a hand in the execution.  He likes to stay under the radar.  Like a silent partner.”  Peter snorted.

“There’s nothing silent about Mozzie, and you know it,” he contested.  Neal simply shrugged, conceding the point.  “And you’re not showing him the Post Office.  I can just imagine the conspiracy theories that would set off.”  The paranoid little man believed almost every plot he had ever heard concerning the government, and had even made up a fair number of his own.

“Yeah.  That probably wouldn’t be a good idea,” the conman agreed.

“Well, if there’s nothing else to discuss, I have a meeting I need to attend.”  Reddington settled his hat neatly, but without the flashy gestures Neal would have used.  Though, Peter reflected, the older criminal would have looked foolish trying the hat tricks.  He had his own charm, certainly, but it was a far more dignified one than the younger’s cheery appeal.  It made him wonder whether his own CI would ever outgrow the boyish attitude. 

No, he decided, after a glance at the thief, currently rolling the small rubber ball over his knuckles.  Neal, in his 90s, would still be grinning and flirting and playing around.  And pulling it off.

“I’ll be out of town,” the crimelord continued, “but you know how to reach me if you need me, of course.  Lizzie, Baz will be staying close.  If you need anything let him know.”  The man frowned thoughtfully.  “Does anybody know where Dembe went?”  It was only then that Peter realised the Negro wasn’t standing quietly in a corner, patiently waiting.

“I think he went to see Agnes,” Samar offered.  Reddington chuckled.

“You could almost think she was his, as fond of her as he is.”  And with that parting statement, he went off to find his right-hand man.

“Since we’re stalled on that front,” Cooper stated firmly, “I would like to remind everyone, needless as I’m sure it is, that we still have a young child unaccounted for.  Everyone’s focus should be on that until we manage to locate her.”

“Samar and I are going around to start checking around at the churches in the area this afternoon,” Ressler offered.  “Someone might have seen something, or even taken her home.”

“Good idea,” The Director agreed, turning to Liz then.  “And you’re still following up on the calls you made yesterday?”  She voiced an affirmative.

“Dismissed, then.”  He settled his gaze on Neal, as the others left the room.  “Mr. Caffrey, my office, please.”  The dark eyes moved to Peter, and the next part was clearly intended for him.  “When it’s convenient, of course.”  The New York agent nodded and the Director turned away then.  If Neal was at all upset at the insinuation that his own convenience didn’t matter, he didn’t let it show, just leaning back against the table casually, looking thoughtful.  But, then, that had been pretty much the way things had been at their office, too.  Neal had worked to Peter’s schedule, not the other way around.

“Mr. Caffrey…  Is that better or worse than a finger point?”  He asked Peter flippantly when the other agent was gone.

“Behave yourself, Neal.”  His handler warned.  “He’s not a Special Agent in Charge, he’s an Assistant Director.  Of Counter-Terrorism.  He can make you disappear completely if he wants to.”  Neal frowned, and Peter got the feeling that Cooper had just been bumped up to Hughes’ level in the man’s estimation, which was exactly what the agent had intended.  Being afraid of the A.D. wouldn’t hurt him at all.

“Great,” the CI muttered, pushing away from his perch.  “Worse, then.”  He started towards the door.

“Neal.”  The conman froze, turning back, blue eyes wary at his handler’s tone, the slender frame tensing nervously.  “There will be no more secrets,” the agent said, holding the younger’s gaze.  “I’m not playing by your rules this time.  No lies, no misdirection, no ‘forgetting’ to tell me something.  And no schemes or ulterior motives.  If I even _think_ you’re holding out on me, you’re on your own from now on, whichever cage that lands you in.  And I do mean _on your own_.”  If Neal wasn’t finally ready to straighten himself out after all, Peter wasn’t going to let him ruin his daughter’s life.

“You always think I’m holding out on you,” Neal protested, sounding defensive.

“Then you’ll just have to try harder to convince me otherwise, won’t you?”  He wasn’t going to give the criminal even an inch of leeway, this time.  He had no intention of this all going south because Neal decided he could find some way to illegally benefit from it, or because he was pushing himself too far, which seemed to be the more likely, this time.

The younger man looked about to argue further, but then suddenly just looked away, his whole posture signalling surrender, with more hopelessness than the agent would have liked.  Damn it.  Why did he feel like he was being conned already?

“Stop looking so depressed,” he scolded mildly, giving an irritated huff then.  “Just… go and see what Agent Cooper wants.  And try not to get into any more trouble.”

The CI didn’t respond to that shot, just heading out of the room morosely, leaving his handler actually considering taking a long, quiet vacation.

 

******

 

Neal pulled himself up straight once he was out of Peter’s sight, putting on his usual mask.  He didn’t often let it show, how much Peter’s barbs and threats could sting; the statements were, technically, usually true, and the threats were rarely followed through on.  And if he started acting too sensitive, the agent would assume he was trying to pull one over on him.  Occasionally, though, showing a little hurt helped. 

It was a bit ironic, really.  He was going to have to con Peter into believing he wasn’t trying to con him, when he hadn’t been trying to in the first place.  Not to mention trying to convince everyone, including his handler, that he was having no trouble, or, at least, a minimal amount, with the whole situation.

The conman started up the stairs to the catwalk, tugging at Peter’s shirt to settle it more properly, and pain flared along the bullet’s path.  He resisted the urge to reach back and rub it.  At least Peter was still here to make threats.  He shivered, and the slice ached again.  The pain was a stark reminder that if he hadn’t had that flare of intuition, wherever it had come from, hadn’t lunged at his partner at that exact second, Peter would be dead now.  And he would…  Well, who knew what would have happened to him.  Tossed back in jail maybe, or assigned to another agent.  Assigned to _Kramer_ , if Peter’s mentor had any say in it.  Then again, if he was still off the books, maybe he’d just be turned loose again.  And that could possibly be the worst possible outcome of the three, honestly.  He still remembered how hard everything had been after Kate’s death.  If Peter died, because of him…  Neal shivered again.

It didn’t matter anyway, he reminded himself firmly.  Peter was fine, he was fine, and they would both be fine and live long, healthy lives and die as old men in bed.

Ten years ago, he reflected, as he slipped on a charming smile and knocked at the A.D.’s door, that wouldn’t have seemed like such a pleasant outcome.

“Come in.”  Neal opened the door and slipped inside.

“You summoned?” he quipped, trying to get just the right mix of respect and cheek in the words.  Cooper didn’t look overly impressed, but neither did he reprimand him.

“Have a seat, Mr. Caffrey.”  He gestured to the straight-backed visitor’s chair. 

“Call me Neal, please.”  Neal settled himself casually. 

“How’s your shoulder?”

“I’ve had worse.  I’ll live.”  Wrong thing to say, he decided instantly.  _If he had been a second later…_   The A.D. only gave a slight nod and sat back.

“You’ve been causing quite the stir yesterday and this morning.”  Neal stayed silent, knowing the beginning of a reprimand when he heard it.  That settled him a bit.  He knew how these conversations worked.  He’d gotten enough in the past.  He’d get lectured, pretend to act repentant and promise not to do it again, and then he’d get sent back down to his (or Peter’s, in this case) desk, or, in the past, to Peter’s office or the conference room for an enforced time-out, if the offence was deemed serious enough.

“Putting your games with Agent Ressler aside, because he is perfectly capable of dealing with you himself if he wished to, you entered the premises without authorization yesterday,” Neal started to protest, but the dark-skinned man gave him a hard look, “with credentials that you shouldn’t have had.  Then, on-site, you disobeyed a direct order from your superior, stole your control bracelet out of another agent’s pocket, which I count as two offences, because you should not have taken anything from him, and you knew you weren’t to take the bracelet in any case.”  The thief shifted uncomfortably, trying to look suitably contrite.  Yes, Peter had never said he couldn’t touch the bracelet, but he was well aware that it was one of those implied things that occasionally popped up, the same as the unspoken and unbreakable rule, on his last stint with the FBI, that he wasn’t to touch the magnetic key that had usually hung off of the agent’s keychain.  It was, really, a sign to anyone who knew him of just how much he had hated the situation.

“After which, you interfered in an active operation, putting yourself and others in danger.”

“I didn’t put-” the conman started to protest, and then flinched in surprise as Cooper’s hand came down on the table loudly.

“If that officer you put down had landed badly, he could have been seriously hurt,” he snapped.  “Not to mention an official reprimand for his partner for injuring or killing an FBI asset, after not identifying herself.  Besides the guilt she would undoubtedly feel over it.”  FBI asset…  Well, at least he knew where he stood in this room.

“And then, this morning…”  Cooper sat back, giving him a long look.  “This morning you shot at an agent.”  Neal felt a little sick at the reminder of that morning, clenching his hands tightly in his lap to stop their shaking.

“I didn’t.”  The denial came before he even stopped to think about it.  Cooper blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t shoot at an agent, I shot at the wall.  If I had been aiming at him, I would have hit him.  Ask Peter.”  Cooper just eyed him for a moment, before continuing.

“Semantics aside, you also saved an agent’s life, and for that, and because no serious consequences came out of this whole debacle, I am prepared to give you a little leeway, this time.”  Neal shrugged a bit uncomfortably.  It wasn’t like he would have let Peter die.  Hell, he would probably have pushed Fowler out of the way, too, if it had been him.  Or Kramer.  Maybe…  “And, yes, I am aware of your attachment to Agent Burke, but I am also aware of the profile I had Keen do on you, which makes me inclined to believe you would have done the same for any other agent as well.”

“Profile?”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”  He hadn’t been; he was honestly curious about it.  Maybe he’d try to wheedle a copy out of Peter later on.

“As I was saying, it gives you some leeway _this_ time.  In future, you will obey all directions given to you by any agent, unless it contravenes a superior command, or puts you or another person in unnecessary danger.  That means every person in this building, from myself and Agent Burke down to Agent Mojtabai.”  And, pretty much par for the course, there.

“What about Liz? I would think she’d be on the bottom of that list.”  Everyone tended to call the woman ‘Agent’, but one of the junior staff had happened to let it slip that she actually wasn’t one anymore.

Cooper gave him a hard look, and he wasn’t sure if that was for using her first name so familiarly, or what sounded, after he said it, like impertinence.

“She is also to be obeyed, of course, but Aram is the one least likely to give, or enforce, any orders to you.”  That, Neal reflected, might be useful knowledge.  He had certainly seemed protective over his computers, though.

Cooper was still eyeing him, and Neal tilted his head, trying the sweet clueless half-smile that almost always drew an amused smirk in return from his handler.  The A.D., however, seemed made of sterner stuff.

“I have heard of some of the chaos you caused at the New York offices.  And I’ve also been told that some of it wasn’t directly your fault, and I am aware of the difficulties that can arise from trying to make a criminal,” another sign of the man’s opinion of him, there, “fit into a professional environment.  That does not eliminate the offences you did commit, however, and that behaviour will not be tolerated here.  I’ve been made aware that you don’t like the Red Box.”  The smile slipped, just a bit, before Neal forced it back on.  New major goal, try to figure out a way to short circuit the controls for that thing without implicating himself, or figure out how to get out of it.  “I will not hesitate to use whatever means I feel necessary to keep you in line.”  That wasn’t a good sign either.  Hughes had generally left Neal’s corrections up to Peter, only interfering when something serious happened, or if his ASAC was out of commission, for whatever reason.

“Do we understand each other?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Good.  Now get out of my office.”  Neal stood quickly.  “And take this.  It will do until we can have a more current photo taken.”  He held out his hand and Neal took the visitor pass from him, looking at it.

“Thank you sir,” he answered politely and left the office, waiting until the door closed behind him to make a face at the photo on the pass.

“That one’s almost as bad as the mugshot,” he muttered, heading back down to the main floor.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little long, mainly because I wanted to get that last scene in. And don't worry, despite the little joke, this isn't actually going to dip into slash territory, although there's a little set-up from Aram's pov that I want to work in if I can manage it...
> 
> It was actually fairly hard to set the chapter up right, and there are versions of the two scenes with Ressler that I decided not to go with, since I didn't want Neal to admit the real reason he doesn't want to be paired up with Ressler so easily. Cookies to whoever figures it out, though I'm not sure it isn't still kind of obvious...
> 
> Agent Palmer is not an oc, by the way. She actually was in the Blacklist's pilot episode, although she didn't return after that.

Peter wasn’t at his desk when Neal reached the bottom of the stairs, though a quick glance around revealed him speaking with Ressler, who, it seemed, had been on his way to his office.  Curious, the conman softened his footsteps, being careful not to be obvious about it, as he moved closer.  It didn’t work, though, Peter glancing over at him.

“I should be back Tuesday,” he continued, turning his attention back to the other agent, his point made.  Whatever this was, it wasn’t some big secret the CI wasn’t supposed to know about.  “Possibly Wednesday morning, at the latest.”

“We’re going back to New York?” Neal asked, uncertainly.  It would be nice to see Elizabeth, and his namesake, (June, he knew, had moved out-of-state to be closer to her family the year before,) but he didn’t want to leave without finding out where Petra was.

“ _I’m_ going back to New York,” his handler clarified.  Neal glanced at Ressler, understanding immediately, but Peter continued anyway.  “ _You_ are going to stay here, under Agent Ressler’s watch, and _behave_ yourself.  Aren’t you?”  The warning was obvious, but Neal ignored it.

“No,” he argued, sharply.  Both the agents gave him incredulous stares.

“Are we doing this again, Neal?” Peter asked, at the same time as Ressler put in;

“Did we ask your opinion?”  Blue eyes flicked between the pair uncertainly, before he apparently settled on trying to convince his partner.

“No, I…  Just lock the radius on the hotel again or something.  I won’t leave it, I promise, and you can lift it remotely if you need to, the same way the Marshals did…”

“You can also spend the weekend here, if you’d prefer.”  Peter was looking annoyed, and Neal caught his breath nervously, giving his handler a pleading look.

“What about Liz, or… or Diana…”

“Who’s Diana?”

“She was my probie, she works out of the DC office now.  And Ms. Keen isn’t an FBI agent, and Diana is busy doing her job.  Don’t even suggest Agent Mojtabai.  You’d run him ragged in an hour.”

“I don’t like him,” the convict protested hotly.

“You don’t…” the older man rolled his eyes.  “Now you’re being completely transparent.  We both know you don’t steal someone’s wallet, and then lock it in their desks, untouched, when you don’t like the person.  That’s your idea of making friends.”

“Honestly?” Ressler put in.  “Do I want to know what happens when he doesn’t like someone, then?”

“Embarrassing and borderline illegal anonymous deliveries, forged credit card statements forwarded to the entire staff, and significant others, in one case, lost and mistyped paperwork…  Remember I said he chased a couple of agents out?”

“That’s all conjecture,” Neal put in quickly.

“And you allowed that?” The blond ignored the criminal, giving the other agent a disbelieving look.

“Well…”  Peter shrugged.  “There was no actual proof, and nobody was particularly sorry to see them go, honestly.  I think the one was actually charged with accepting bribes and police brutality, at his new position…”

“I heard he tried to force a confession.”

“Anyway, that was a long time ago.  Neal _is_ going to behave.”  Neal opened his mouth to protest again, but Peter’s frown cut him off.

“Yes, of course,” he answered, instead, reluctantly.  “It’ll be fine.”

“You put one foot wrong, and I’ll have you in cuffs and locked up before you can blink,” Ressler warned, and paced off toward his office.

“Just fine,” Neal repeated, under his breath.  Peter just patted him on the shoulder, and went back to his own desk.  The CI considered a moment, and walked after his new, temporary, handler, opening the door and stepping inside.  Ressler looked up at him.

“I’m sure you were taught how to knock,” he stated, returning to the report he was reading then.  The bracelet sat on the desk in front of him, seemingly dropped there carelessly.

“Sorry,” Neal offered, then hesitated.  The agent looked up again, obviously paying attention this time.

“Did you need something?”  Neal shifted his weight, frowning.  He glanced out the office’s window, noticing Peter returning his gaze, the older man’s expression concerned and a little suspicious.

“I just thought we should get to know each other a little, if we’re going to be working together,” he answered, turning back and offering his brightest smile.

“We aren’t ‘working together’,” the blond returned, and Neal’s smile slipped a bit.  “I will make this very clear right now.  I don’t like you.”  The agent sat back and fixed him with an intent look.  “I am only taking you on because we apparently need you for this case, and I’m willing to admit that maybe you got a bad hand.”

“And I thought we had a connection.”  Just a bit of pout.  Ressler didn’t look impressed.  This was going splendidly, Neal thought glumly, though he didn’t let it show.  It was going to be a wonderful weekend.  Red Box, here he came…  But maybe that would be the better outcome, honestly.

“There is no connection.  You’re a CI, a criminal, and, at the moment, a victim.  Burke may treat you like an old buddy, but you’re not my friend, and you’re not my partner.  She’s sitting out there.”  He pointed out towards Samar’s desk.  Neal spared the Mossad agent a quick glance.  The woman was worse than Diana, but he thought he might have been getting to her, a bit.  At least, more than he was here.  “As far as I’m concerned, you should be locked up in a cell somewhere, but Reddington dragged you into this, and it’s my responsibility to ensure you come out the other end of it alive.”  The conman winced inwardly.  “Frankly, the only thing you’ve got going for you in my books is that, up until this morning, I could at least trust that I could turn my back on you and not worry about a bullet.”  The insinuation hit him hard, and it was all Neal could do to keep from reacting noticeably.  He forced his breathing to stay calm, leaning back against the door frame with seeming carelessness to combat his sudden dizziness; shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket to hide their shaking.  Ressler, luckily, couldn’t read him well enough to notice the tells like Peter would have.  He did look a bit concerned, though.  Maybe Neal was slipping.

“If you’re going to pass out, give me a warning.”

“I’m fine,” the thief insisted, forcing himself to straighten, moving to leave.  The agent seemed willing to take him at face value.

“In that case, you can go find Agent Palmer, and ask her to find you something to do.”  Neal just nodded again.  He liked the caramel-skinned woman, though he had only actually spoken to her a couple times, the day he had been confined to the Post Office.  Normally, he would have considered the excuse to openly flirt with her a prize.  At the moment he wasn’t nearly so interested.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, simply, and quietly left the office, only offering a small smile to his real handler’s worried look, before heading to the men’s room to be alone.

 

******

 

Neal didn’t have nearly enough time to pull himself back together before a knock came on the bathroom door.  He ignored it, hoping maybe he was wrong and it was someone else.  The locked door handle jiggled as whoever was outside tried it.

“Unlock the door, Neal.”

“Manners, Peter,” he called back, forcing levity into his tone, despite the fact that he felt nothing of the sort.  “It’s not nice to walk in on someone in the bathroom.”

“That might stop me if it was someone actually concerned about that,” The agent countered.  And, okay, that might have been a habit he should have tried harder to get rid of, but after four years of unwalled toilets and public showers, occasionally sharing a bathroom with a man you actually trusted not to attack you wasn’t really that big a deal, no matter what state of undress you might both be in.

“Don’t you have a plane to catch?” he tried again.  His question was met with a moment of silence, and then a click as the door unlocked.  Peter _would_ have brought a key with him, of course.  Boy scout.

“I’ve got time yet,” the agent answered, stepping inside and relocking the door behind him.  There was a moment of silence, Peter just studying him, probably.  Neal knew what he would see, could have seen it himself if he had opened his eyes and looked over at the full length mirror against the far wall.  He was leaning against the wall by the sink, hands shoved deep into his pockets again, head back.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine.”  The usual opening gambit, of course.

“Yeah, you really look it.”

“I’m not the one who was shot at this morning,” Neal protested, trying to keep the words flippant, not really managing.

“You _were_ the one who actually got shot.  Again.”  And, yes, the conman admitted, he did have a point there.

“It’s barely a graze, Peter.”  He forced himself to straighten, opening his eyes and startling a bit when he realised how close the other man actually was.  Still, he forced a smile.  “I’m fine, really.”

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” the agent argued.  He pulled his phone out.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to tell Cooper to call this off.  You’re clearly not fit, and I’m not going to let you con your way into a nervous breakdown over a case.”

“Don’t.”  Neal made a grab for the phone, Peter merely stepping out of his reach, his thumb on the dial button.  “Peter, I’ll be fine, I promise.  I just need a little quiet time.”

“No.  They can send someone else in.  An agent, or one of Reddington’s guys.”

“They won’t trust someone new.  They know me.”

“This discussion is at an end!”  Neal stared at him, a hurt look in his eyes.  Peter just glared past him at the wall.

“You don’t trust me,” the CI accused.  Peter sighed, closed his eyes, taking on the long-suffering look he wore so often.

“It’s not about trust.  You’re hiding out in a bathroom, falling apart, because someone you’ve known for a week said something that upset you.”

“I’m not falling apart,” Neal snapped back, feeling furious suddenly at his own response to this all.  He’d gone through worse.  Compared to some of their past cases, nothing really bad had actually happened, yet.  Yes, he had been shot, but that had happened before, and that was, so far, the most serious injury, and, at the moment, they didn’t know that anything bad had happened to Petra, either.

“I just need some space.  You’ve been babying me ever since you put that anklet on me.  You left me with Kramer instead of taking me in with you, and I’ve followed you into more dangerous places with less back-up before, so that’s no excuse.  I know how to stay out of the way.  You won’t let me out of your sight, and any time I speak up, you slap me down and start throwing around lectures about how you’re in charge and I need to just sit back and do as I’m told.  We may share the same name, but I am _not_ your son, Peter.”  There was silence a moment then, infuriated blue eyes meeting troubled brown ones.

“The last time I sent you under,” Peter said, finally, his tone even, a little too controlled, “I lost you.”  Neal dropped his eyes, looking away now, shuddering, trying to push everything back behind that mask again.

“Peter, I-”

 “I _buried_ you.”  The younger man flinched.  “I know why you did it, and I don’t blame you, even if I hate the _way_ you did it, but I can’t.  Not yet.  I can’t trust my judgement, and I never could trust yours.  You’ll tear yourself apart to see a case closed.”

“What good am I to you, then, if I can’t do what I do?”

“I’m not the FBI, Neal.  You are _my_ asset now, not theirs.  Your worth is not dependant on a closure rate.”

“So I’ll just be your ‘kept boy’, then.”

Peter didn’t even answer that, just giving him a look, and Neal flushed slightly.

“Whatever,” he growled, moving to leave the room, pausing when Peter spoke again.

“If you try anything this weekend, I will reduce your radius so far you really won’t be able to go out of my sight.”

“That only works if I accept it,” Neal pointed out, not turning back.

“A cell works, too.”  The CI stood still a moment, glaring at the door frame, then stalked out.

Peter stood in the silence of the room a long moment, settling himself, before Liz appeared in the doorway, giving him a knowing look.

“Bit loud?” the New York agent guessed, dryly.

“I was next door.”  She nodded towards the woman’s room.  “I’d like to offer some advice, if you’ll take it,” she added.  Peter considered a moment, then gave a half shrug.

“Why not.  You’ve probably seen your share of clashes too.”

“Red’s always been protective of me, right from the start.  He’s crossed into ‘overprotective’ more times than I can count, having a sniper move in across the street from me, getting his men to follow me, even buying my next door neighbour a new apartment at one point so he could put his men in there for surveillance.  The point is, it was stifling.  I wanted my autonomy, and he just wanted to keep me safe.  I did some rather extreme things to try to get away from _him_ , for that, and other reasons, some things that, in retrospect, weren’t very good ideas.”  She grimaced at the memory.

“It’s different.  Neal is…”

“A criminal, and a little careless, and, at his core, very insecure, yes, I know.  He’s also older than I am, probably smarter, certainly more capable, and he knows his way around that world.  As you pointed out, Red and I haven’t been together as long as you and Caffrey, and I won’t pretend to know him nearly as well as you, but I _am_ a criminal profiler, and I can promise you he can’t live under that kind of restraint.  He’ll resent you, and it will continue to build up, and then he’ll leave, again.  And I’m pretty sure he’s better at disappearing than I am.”

“We’re not talking about taking a walk down the street.  This is a dangerous undercover assignment.”

“And you’re gun-shy,” Liz broke in, ignoring the insulted look the other agent gave her.  “Which is understandable, but ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away.  He did dangerous ops before, I’m sure, probably more dangerous than this one.”

Peter smirked wryly after a moment, conceding the point.  “And with less backup, more often than not,” he admitted, then sighed.  “When you fall off the horse, you have to get right back in the saddle, or you never will.”

“I haven’t spent much time around horses, but that sounds like decent advice.”

“Something my father always used to say.”  He shook his head and chuckled.  “It seems I’m forever destined to have smart women named Elizabeth around to talk sense into me.”  Liz just shrugged, looking a little embarrassed.  “Thanks.  I’ll go talk to him after he’s cooled down a bit.”

“It’s no problem.  You two make a good team, I can certainly tell that.”  She smiled and headed off.  Peter took a few last calming breaths, and set off to find his CI.

 

******

 

He found the conman in an unused back office, stretched out on his back on a couch that had been left there, his eyes closed, right arm hooked over the couch’s arm.  His left leg was bent at the knee so that he could reach the anklet, two fingers hooked through the linked band, his thumb rubbing lightly at the metal.  He didn’t open his eyes, though he had to have heard the agent’s approach, but his thumb did fall still.

“You’re going to miss your plane,” he huffed darkly.

“There’s always another plane.  I only have one ‘pet con’.”  The teasing tone didn’t bring any response, and the agent sighed.  “I might have been a little oppressive lately…”

“Just a bit.”  The younger man replied, in the same ill-tempered tone.

“I don’t want you doing anything big until I’m back, even if Mozzie does get here that fast.  If I have the slightest warning that something’s gone wrong, or you’re panicking again, I am pulling you out, and you _will_ obey.”

The CI opened his eyes and observed him curiously, obviously trying to figure this puzzle out.  After a moment he released the restraint completely, sitting up properly.

“What changed your mind?”  The agent shrugged, moving over to sit beside him, lying his arm along the back of the furniture.

“Someone with more sense than me reminded me that you can’t cage a hawk and expect him to be happy.”

“I’m your bird now.  I’m trying to figure out whether that’s better than being the FBI’s dog or not.”  But the statement was followed by a slight smirk, and the thief leaned back against the cushions, his handler shifting his arm to lie across the younger man’s shoulders.

“Could call you my horse.”  Peter answered, remembering the proverb he had had voiced to the other agent.

“Why, do you want to ride me?”  The conman quipped, then grinned when Peter looked uncomfortable.

“Please don’t spread _that_ rumour around.  You know what will happen.”  He had no desire to be known as the FBI agent who had an illicit affair with his _male_ CI.

“I can be discrete.”  Neal promised, then, after a minute, added, “Elizabeth probably wouldn’t approve, anyway.”

“I don’t know.” The agent replied.  “It is Elle, after all.  She might want to watch.  Or join in.”  He wasn’t really serious, of course.  Elle did occasionally refer to Neal as his ‘other spouse’, but she’d probably draw the line there.  Though, her responses to that sort of thing could often catch him by surprise.  And she did like Neal.  Well, it was a moot point anyway, but he could tease.  “At least she wouldn’t have to worry about me getting you pregnant.”

“What makes you think you’d be on top?”  Neal protested.  Peter gave him an amused look, and the conman huffed.  “You _really_ need to work on those control issues.”

“I work on them every time you’re around.  Besides, you’re the pretty one.”  It would take a far less secure man than he was to deny that Neal was gorgeous.  “Everybody knows the pretty one catches.”

“Really?  Stereotyping much?”

“Let’s ask Diana, then.”  Neal just huffed.  They both knew full well who the lesbian would agree with.  There was a moment of silence, before the conman spoke again.

“I like the hawk.  I’ve got the jess.”  He lifted his ankle and shook it lightly.  “And hawks get to fly.”  That drew a head shake.

“You and heights.  Honestly.”  The conman shrugged.

“There’s a thrill with getting away with breaking the law of gravity.”

“Oh, well,” Peter answered with a smirk.  “When you put it that way, it makes perfect sense. You never met a law you didn’t want to break.”

“No, there are a few I’m quite happy to leave unbroken.”

“Hmm.”  Peter watched the other out of the corner of his eye.  He seemed more relaxed, now.  It was probably at least partly false, but the fact that he was even managing it was a good sign.  He didn’t know what the other agent had said to set the CI off, but, by the faintly concerned way Ressler had watched his new charge leave, and the half-shrug he had given Peter’s questioning look, it hadn’t been deliberate.

Maybe Liz had been right, and Peter was just being anxious.  Yesterday and that morning _had_ been fairly traumatic.  He remembered how he had felt when Elle had been taken, and he had at least known she was safe, and who had her.  He still had to fight the temptation to take Neal back to New York with him.  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to let him come back to D.C. again, if he did, though.  Not until this whole thing was done with.

“What’s with the jewellery?” the agent asked, changing the subject, curling a finger to tug at Neal’s necklace.  The criminal had never been one for that type of accessory, much as he loved stealing them.  He had pointed out, once, that loose items like that were a hazard when one was in a tight space.

“Supposed to make me look tough or something,” the con answered with a shrug.  “Annemarie bought it.  Don’t pull too hard, I had the clasp replaced with a more fragile one.  I don’t need anybody trying to choke me with it.”

“Good idea.”

“You really need to go if you’re going to catch that plane.”

“I have plenty of time.”  Peter huffed out a breath.  “I meant what I said, behave while I’m gone.  Do what Ressler tells you.  I don’t want to come back and find you in trouble again.”

“He doesn’t like me.”  The CI complained childishly.  Peter smirked.

“Since when does that matter to you?  It’s a good thing, anyway.  He’s less likely to fall for your schemes or let you get away with anything.  Maybe I should just leave you with him.”

“Please tell me that’s one of your less tasteful jokes.”  Neal pleaded.

“The bureau is trying to get me down here again.  Between the two of us, and your new time-out room, we should be able to keep you straight.”

“I don’t think Ressler could use my skills.”  He actually looked faintly worried, probably more about the cell than either of the men themselves.

“There’s always paperwork.  I know how much you enjoy that.  And how good you are at ‘creative wording’.”  Neal’s paperwork had always been faintly cryptic; Peter was sure it had been an attempt to make it easier to slip things past his overseers when he had to.  “He would probably have a lot of use for that.”  The conman winced, a bit theatrically, and the agent’s amusement only grew.  Yes, it was a bit cruel of him to tease the other man like that, but Neal more than paid it back with his escapades, in his opinion, and he was seldom really malicious about it.  The remarks and occasional cockblock were a reminder of who was in charge, anyway.

“We can discuss it later.  As you have pointed out, I have a plane to catch.”  He gave the shoulder his hand was on a fond squeeze and stood, straightening his jacket.

“Keep your head down and do as you’re told and you’ll be fine.  If you’re good, I’ll bring you back some of Elle’s cookies.”

“So, just don’t be me.”  The con quipped.

“Exactly.”  Peter agreed with a knowing smile, and left the office, desperately hoping everything didn’t go to hell while he was gone.


End file.
